by Amanda Scott
“’Tis not sleep that will overcome me, sweetheart, if you intend to play that game,” he said with a chuckle, standing to shed his clothes. “You’ve changed, Mollie.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant, but she was suddenly extremely conscious of her own nakedness, and though she was fascinated, she didn’t want to stare at him while he undressed, so she scrambled under the thick, eiderdown quilt before she answered him.
“I haven’t changed, sir. I have merely grown up a little, I think. I have thought often about you, you see, so…” She faltered, not really certain she wanted to continue, to tell him of her fantasies in the long, lonely nights since he had gone. But he seemed to understand. The look in his eyes was a warm one when he joined her beneath the quilt, gathering her once more into his arms.
“I know, sweetheart. I thought of you, too. But my memory played me false. I’d forgotten how beautiful you are. Or perhaps you have grown more beautiful in my absence. And I’d swear your skin is softer, your hair more silky. The air of Kent seems to have agreed with you, Mollie.”
He had been caressing her while he talked, and Mollie found herself incapable now of coherent speech. His hands roamed everywhere, and her body responded instantly to his lightest touch. Then his lips followed where his fingers and hands had gone before, while his hands began to guide hers, urging her to explore his body to her heart’s content.
Only once, just before he reclaimed her as his own, did it occur to Mollie to wonder why she had allowed herself to submit to him so easily. But then he was inside her, and it didn’t matter anymore. She lifted her body to welcome him, finding that the initial awkwardness in their rhythm soon faded, letting them move in harmony until the world seemed to explode within her. She was conscious then of a small sense of irritation when he did not stop. Instead, he moved faster and faster until she thought she could tolerate no more. But then the feeling inside altered again, and she didn’t want him to stop. She felt herself climbing higher and higher. He made a sound deep in his throat, halfway between a moan and a groan, and then it was over. The tension drained from his body, and he collapsed on top of her.
“Oh, Mollie,” he said softly.
Mollie sighed. But when he rolled off her and plumped the pillows up behind himself, she smiled at him. And when he seemed to draw pleasure from looking at her slim body, rosy now from exertion, she made no move to draw the quilt up again. Hawk pulled her into his arms, and she nestled there, content. Perhaps his return would not make difficulties, after all. She certainly had not expected their first private interview to be like this.
The thought brought a niggle of doubt with it, however. Perhaps he had merely wanted to assuage his lust before getting down to more serious matters. To be sure, it had not seemed that way at the time, but how could she possibly trust her own judgment when she had so clearly let her passions run away with her good sense. Was it possible that she had submitted without the briefest of protests in order merely to please him, hoping that her submissive attitude would mitigate his displeasure later? She stiffened slightly. Surely not. Surely she was not such a coward as that.
Hawk looked down at her, his brow furrowing a little when he saw her expression. He reached down with his free hand and pulled the quilt up, covering them to the waist. Then he gave her a little hug.
“Why the frown, Mollie? I didn’t hurt you, did I? I was careful.”
She looked up from under her thick, dusky lashes, touched by his concern. “No,” she said, low, “you didn’t hurt me. I liked the things you made me feel.”
“Did you? You didn’t like them four years ago.”
“That’s not quite true,” she said slowly. “I think perhaps I was a little afraid of the feelings then. I was so young and I didn’t know what to expect, you see.”
“But you know now?” His voice had hardened noticeably, and she swallowed carefully before answering him, knowing that she walked a thin line.
“I believe I know what you are thinking, sir, and that is not what I meant at all. ’Tis only that I am a deal older now, and I have learned much more about the ways of the world. Then, too, you had magic in your hands tonight,” she added, smiling. “I felt no fear, only desire.”
His fingers played lightly along her forearm, and she could feel him relax beside her, but she could not let the subject drop entirely. Not without discovering what things he had been told and what he meant to do about them. Not for a moment could she make herself believe he had heard nothing. The silence lengthened until she could stand it no longer.
“Sir?”
“I have a name, sweetheart.”
“I know you do, but ’tis so long since I last used it that it sits strangely upon my tongue.”
“You haven’t referred to me by name in four years?” He was indignant.
She grinned at him, enjoying this interlude, hoping his mood would not alter too drastically after she had said all she had to say. “I called you Hawk,” she told him, “like your father did, and like Ramsay and Harry. Only Lady Bridget calls you by your Christian name, and she does not do so except when you are with her. She is more likely to call you Hawkstone, you know.”
“Well, I should like to hear you say my name, but I shan’t press you. And I didn’t mean to turn the subject. I feel certain you’ve a number of things you’d like to discuss with me.”
Mollie swallowed again, this time with more difficulty. What had he meant by that? Did he expect her to enumerate each incident and beg his forgiveness for each slip, each step she had taken beyond the line of propriety. She’d be damned if she would!
She glanced up at him. He was staring straight ahead, waiting. His lips were pressed tightly together, as though it was only by exerting an effort that he was able to let her have her say first.
“It was not so bad as all that, Gavin,” she found herself saying defensively.
He looked down at her, his expression making it clear that her words were not the ones he had expected to hear.
“What was not so bad?” He seemed to choose his own words carefully.
“Whatever it is you think I have done. Whatever it is they wrote you about.” She went on in a rush before he could reply, “I know I should not have done some of the things I did, but truly they were not so dreadful; and while it is not the fairest thing in the world that Lady Margaret Hazeldell or the Marchioness of Hawkstone can get away with things that would be condemned out of hand in a Miss Nobody, still that is the way of the world, and I see no reason not to take advantage of the fact when the alternative means living like a recluse.”
“What things?”
The words brought her up short. “Why, whatever Lady Andrew and the others wrote you,” she said more hesitantly, confused by the fact that he seemed not to know what she was talking about. “I know they must have written, for they were forever reading me lectures and saying it was their duty to inform you, but please, sir, I am quite certain they exaggerated everything out of…of…”
“Out of spite,” he finished for her. “Good Lord, Mollie, you don’t think I believed that fustian. I don’t give a tinker’s damn for anything Aunt Trixie or the others might tell me. I know you better than that. When I said you’d changed, I didn’t mean anything like that, just that you seemed more relaxed, more sure of yourself. You’re still the same serene, ladylike wife I left behind. Certainly, too much a lady to risk cuckolding your husband before the succession is secured.”
Her eyes flashed at the implication in his words, but she knew well that he still had little notion of how much truth there had been in some of the things his aunts had written.
“Of course I would never do such a thing,” she said finally, through gritted teeth, “but…but there were things that were not quite…well, that went beyond the line of being pleasing.”
“Pleasing to whom? My aunts?” He shook his head when she opened her mouth to explain. “Never mind. Perhaps there were things you are not proud of, Mollie, but I have no intention of c
ross-questioning or laying blame. My behavior these past years has not been entirely unexceptionable, either. I confess, I had thought you meant to make that the subject of this conversation.” The smile in his eyes was a rueful one.
“You thought I meant to take you to task over your behavior?”
“Is it so odd that I might believe you would be angry?”
She gazed at him thoughtfully. “I was angry when you left. And hurt, too. I thought I’d been nothing more than a challenge to you, that once you’d got me riveted, you simply went on to the next challenge, that you didn’t care a pig’s whisper about me.”
He sighed. “I was a pretty frippery fellow, sweetheart, but not quite so frippery as that.”
“Then, why?”
“Why did I go?” She nodded. “Many reasons. I was too young to know better. I wanted to get out from under my father’s thumb. The excitement of military life called to me. And there were other things.”
“With me?”
“With you.” He looked down at her. “Did you ever know my mother?”
“No, but I’ve heard a deal about her from your father and from Ramsay. She was ill a great deal, and I think your father had a rather poor opinion of her. Ramsay seems to have had a fondness for her, but he loves Lady Bridget more.”
Hawk grimaced. “She suffered a great deal with my father. I was afraid I might be like him.” Shaking his head, he pulled her closer to him. “There is too much here to try to explain all at once, but I know now that I am no reflection of Thurston Colporter. That part of the fear is gone. There are still shadows of other fears, but one at least seems to have had little foundation in fact.”
“What’s that?”
“That you would still be so angry that you wouldn’t even talk to me. I think that is a large part of why I have put off coming home for so long. I made every campaign, every least reason, an excuse for delay. I’m sorry now that I didn’t have the courage to face you before now.”
“Why did you come now, my lord?” she asked, trying to digest the things he was telling her. A fearful Hawk was the last thing she had expected. It put a different light on things. He still hadn’t answered her, and she had the feeling that he didn’t want to answer her. She lifted an eyebrow, questioning his reticence.
“I was ordered home,” he said at last, reluctantly. “Wellington said it was time I attended to my duties and quit playing soldier with the other lads. He said I ought to have come home when Father died, and he is right. But the guilt just grew and grew, Mollie. I was ashamed of myself for giving in to fears that now seem like the most childish of motivations. Can you understand? Does what I’m saying make the least bit of sense to you?”
His gaze was penetrating, and she knew her answer was important to him. It gave her a sense of power she hadn’t felt with him before. Hawk was vulnerable. But she had no wish to take advantage of the fact. She smiled softly. “I don’t know that I understand it fully,” she said, “but I’ll try.”
He bent to kiss her. “We’ll both try, sweetheart. I think perhaps we have a chance to make something of this marriage of ours, don’t you?”
4
WHEN MOLLIE AWOKE THE next morning, she was alone in the huge bed. The curtains had been opened and a small fire crackled in the stone fireplace. Sunshine streamed in through the two tall, narrow windows, laying golden rivers of light across the dark Turkey carpet covering the cold stone floor. Stretching lazily, she wondered where Hawk had gone.
Ordinarily, Cathe brought Mollie her morning chocolate at half-past seven. Surely, she thought, it was later than that by now! She glanced around the room, looking for a clock. There was none. Well, no matter, she decided. She wanted her breakfast, and she wanted her clothes. The ones she had taken off the night before were no longer lying on the floor where she had left them. Unless she wished to wear one of Hawk’s shirts, she would have to ring for someone. The bellcord hung beside the bed. After a pause during which she wondered who would respond to her ring, she tugged firmly on the cord. Then, just in case, she pulled the eiderdown up to her chin.
But it was Cathe who entered a few moments later, carrying a tray bearing a pot of hot chocolate and fluffy Scottish scones with honey and marmalade. Mollie sniffed appreciatively, and Cathe grinned at her.
“Good morning, m’lady. ’Tis a fine spring day.”
“What time is it, if you please?”
“Why, ’tis gone nine, m’lady, but the master said we was t’ leave ye be. Said the sleep would do ye good, ’e did.”
“Did he now?” Mollie murmured with a smile as she shifted the tray more comfortably across her lap.
Cathe plumped the pillows behind her. “Aye,” she said, “and ’e said ye wasn’t t’ bother yer ’ead about Mr. Troutbeck, neither.”
“Mr. Troutbeck! Oh, good Lord. I told him I’d meet with him at half-past nine. Get my clothes, Cathe.”
“But the master said—”
“Hang the master! Get my clothes!”
Cathe fled and Mollie shoved the tray away, flinging the coverlet over it in her haste. Without a thought for her nakedness, she hastened to the washstand and splashed cold water on her face, drying herself with the slightly damp towel hanging on a nearby hook. His towel. And his brushes and combs on the dressing table. She snatched up one of the brushes and tried to drag it through her long curls. How could she have forgotten about her meeting with Troutbeck? There were a number of details to be discussed and arrangements to be made before she left for London. For one thing, the road to the valley floor from the lake was a mess after the heavy rains. A party of men must be sent out this very day to begin repairs, or every bone in their bodies would be shaken when they traveled over it by carriage next week. As it was, the men would barely have time to repair the deepest ruts and the worst of the chuckholes.
The oblong brush was too large for her hand and she could not manage it easily enough to bring any order to her tangled hair. If only he had allowed her to prepare properly for bed! Normally, she plaited her hair before retiring, which made it much easier to manage in the morning. His combs weren’t much better. Fine-toothed, they only became enmeshed in the snarls. Flinging them back onto the dressing table, she turned impatiently when Cathe entered.
“My hair is a mess. It will take forever to put it right.”
Cathe grinned at her but said nothing, merely handing her a clean chemise and moving to lay a lilac sprigged round gown across the bedclothes.
“Don’t put it there,” Mollie warned. “The tray’s still there somewhere.”
Obediently Cathe put the dress on the chair back and then pulled the quilt forward. “Oh, m’lady, ye’ve gone and got chocolate and ’oney all over the quilt. And this cover only just washed yesterday.”
Guilty color flooded Mollie’s cheeks, and with a rueful smile she said she was sorry. “I was in a rush and didn’t think, Cathe. You’ll just have to see that the quilt cover’s washed again.”
“Yes, m’lady, and we’ll ’ave to ’ope the chocolate don’t stain it and ’asn’t gone through to the down,” Cathe replied. “But I expect Mrs. Bracegirdle will know ’ow to turn the trick. She be right deedy about such stuff.”
Mollie agreed that the housekeeper was indeed a treasure, then pointed out that she was waiting for her gown, and Cathe, after removing the tray to a safer location, hastened to assist her. The simple gown was quickly fastened up the back, and the narrow muslin sash was tied becomingly under Mollie’s left breast. Her hair took as long as she had feared it would to comb into a braided twist at the nape of her neck, but at last she was ready. Instead of slippers or sandals, she wore a pair of sturdy leather half-boots, so she scarcely noticed the cobblestones underfoot when, having run down the back stairs and through the rear hall, she hastened across the stableyard to the estate office. The little bitch, Mandy, followed her excitedly across the yard, coming to a panting halt on the stoop.
Mollie pushed open the door into the cluttered little office, t
alking as she hurried inside. “I’m dreadfully sorry to be late, but here I am at last, so—” She broke off as the two men on opposite sides of the paper-strewn desk came hastily to their feet.
“My lady!” exclaimed the round-faced little man behind the desk, straightening his dun-colored jacket over a round little paunch and pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles higher up the bridge of his button nose.
“Good morning, sweetheart. I trust you slept well.”
She glared at Hawk, remembering only as he spoke that Cathe had said he meant to see Troutbeck. She had been too concerned about her own appointment with the bailiff to think much about anything else.
“Good morning, Hawkstone,” she said formally. “I see you have made yourself known to Mr. Troutbeck. I am sure there are a great many questions you will wish to ask him about the estates, but I trust you will not object if we attend to some trifling matters of business first.”
“Not at all,” Hawk replied politely, glancing quickly around the tiny office, then pushing his own chair toward her. “Sit here, my lady. You will not mind if I remain. I should like to know what is taking place here in future. The reports I’ve received have been few and far between to put the matter lightly. The result of the war, no doubt.”
“No, sir,” Mollie answered frankly. “You rarely responded to anything I wrote, except when I informed you of Mr. Brewer’s reluctance to authorize funds for refurbishing Lady Bridget’s rooms. On that occasion you addressed your reply to him, so I assumed thereafter that when you wished to know about something you would correspond directly with your bailiff.”
She saw his jaw tighten, but she was angry herself and didn’t care. When she continued to glare at him, he met the look steadily and with a hint of ice in his gaze. “I should no doubt have been more responsive when you wrote about such things as having the causeway repaired or a new field planted. However, things were a trifle heated at my end at the time, and it sounded as if you had matters well in hand here, so I did not. I did, however, expect you to request my bailiff to send me regular reports.” He glanced at the uncomfortable Mr. Troutbeck.
