Winter Fire - Malloran 06

by Jo Beverley

  Ash shook his head. “Impossible to understand a mind like hers. Perhaps she hoped that proof would crush me with guilt. Or that it might cause the king to insist I marry only her. I expect word of the king’s ultimatum prompted her one last attack. We were to be found together, and the Brokesbys were to carry the tale around England.”

  “Then why flee at the last minute? I hate the pieces not fitting!”

  “Like clockwork,” he said with a look. “I’d like to think that she realized I’d throttle her, but we’ll probably never know.”

  Genova smiled at him. “You’d never have touched her, Ash.”

  “No? I think you’re deluded about my character.”

  “Am I? I don’t forget that she left the baby for ”Mr. Dash‘.“

  “So?”

  “There would have been no point unless she knew that you wouldn’t be able to abandon him.”

  He took out his snuffbox, a mother-of-pearl and diamond one, and flipped it open. She was beginning to recognize a defensive move. “If you remember, I did my best to run.”

  “Because I was there, and you thought then that I was Molly’s deputy.”

  “I tried to put him on the parish.”

  “And planned to leave money for his care. Despite what you said, I know you would have arranged to be informed about his welfare.”

  He inhaled a tiny amount. “You are often given to delusions? I am not known as a Good Samaritan.”

  “Let’s put it to the test. What are we to do with these two?” She nodded toward Sheena and Lawrence, who were holding tight to each other’s hands and waiting to hear their fate.

  “Put them on the parish,” Ash said, snapping his box shut.

  She looked at him, and he added, lips twitching, “We could run away and leave them on Rothgar’s hands.”

  Then he smiled in acknowledgment that he’d do neither. “Relentless,” he said. “I suppose we should inform my cousin of these developments under his roof, though I look a fool.”

  “It would take a devious mind to see through this one.”

  “Are you saying I’m not devious?”

  He seemed truly affronted, and she couldn’t help but laugh. His smile became a grin and she knew it was sinking in that this finally cleared him.

  It would take deft handling to smooth things with the king, but Ash’s way was clear to what he wanted. He would finally take up his full position as Marquess of Ashart, and do it well.

  He tugged the bellpull. “I need to have this arrangement installed at Cheynings. It spares us from servants hovering within earshot all the time.”

  “It takes longer to get service,” she pointed out.

  “You like the old ways?”

  “I think a man short of money shouldn’t be considering expensive renovations.”

  “Genova, sweetheart, don’t nag.”

  A footman arrived and duly went off to find the marquess. They waited in silence, then. The Irish couple, relaxing, leaned close and murmured. Sheena began to smile and dabbed her eyes with her apron. Genova guessed they were beginning to plan their future, and longed to be doing the same thing.

  Perhaps if she and Ash had made love, it would have changed his mind. But she’d never take that route to marriage.

  When Rothgar came in, he looked around the room. “What have we here?”

  In an attempt at a cool manner, Ash gestured to the Irish couple. “Mr. Lawrence Carr and Miss Sheena O’Leary, lovers, parents, now happily united. I thought it best to inform you.”

  “Parents?”

  “Parents of the baby we arrived with. Charlie Carr, I assume we should call him now.” Ash told the story.

  “So Molly Carew was never with child. I felicitate you, Cousin.”

  Ash inclined his head. “It seems best to let the lad stay. In the stables with the grooms, perhaps?”

  “We could build a bower in the hall and have a living presepe.” But Rothgar was teasing. “Of course he may stay. Perhaps Mr. Carr might like to see his son before he leaves the house?”

  Lawrence Carr bowed, touching his forelock. “Indeed I would, milord.”

  Rothgar turned to Genova. “Perhaps you could bring the infant down, Miss Smith. Mrs. Harbinger dislikes strangers in her domain, and Miss O’Leary looks a little unsteady still.”

  In fact, Sheena did not look deliriously happy. She was clinging to her lover’s hand, but she looked as if the blow was yet to fall. Was there more to tell?

  Genova hurried to the nurseries, wondering if Mrs. Harbinger would welcome Charlie back when she knew he was Sheena’s own child.

  When Genova told the nursery governess the gist of the story, however, Mrs. Harbinger nodded. “I had begun to suspect as much, Miss Smith, and was in something of a puzzle over what to do about it. Strange goings-on.”

  She led Genova into the nursery where only one cradle remained, and scooped out the sleeping baby. She wrapped him in an extra blanket and passed him over. Genova carried him away, thinking she knew Sheena’s concern. Life in her village was probably simple and poor, and having tasted better, she might want better for her child.

  Genova navigated the stairs with care, since a baby and hooped skirts was a challenge. Distant music told that the Christmas revelry continued—a celebration all to do with a baby. Charlie stirred, his mouth working for a moment.

  “Don’t cry for food yet,” Genova told him. “Especially since Lord Rothgar might still be there.”

  He settled, and she hummed the presepe song to keep him happy. She entered the room to find Ash alone with Sheena and Lawrence in a tense silence.

  It broke as soon as Genova gave the baby to Sheena. Lawrence’s open delight, the eagerness with which he took Charlie into his arms, eased some of Genova’s concerns. But the story wouldn’t end until they were comfortably settled somewhere.

  Rothgar returned with a servant who was to take Lawrence to the grooms’ area above the stables. As soon as he started to leave, Sheena clung to him, crying.

  Genova had Lawrence explain to the girl. Sheena reluctantly let him go and left to return to the nurseries, but as if tragedy weighed on her head.

  “I feel like a Capulet or Montague,” Ash said. “I hope you’ve locked away the poison, Rothgar.”

  “This abbey is clear of meddling monks, at least. What will you do now?”

  Ash moved around the room, pausing at the table holding decanters. “May I offer you some of your own brandy?”

  Rothgar smiled and declined.

  “It would be useful to find Molly and confront her with her sins, but perhaps cruel to make her confess them in public.”

  “You’re more compassionate than I am,” Rothgar said. “May I be of service in presenting this evidence to the king? I believe he would find this tale of Irish lovers interesting, perhaps even touching, if told aright. He could be persuaded that he has been less than just. It would be wise to marry, though. Kings hate to have it obvious that they have changed their mind.”

  Genova looked at her meaningless ring. She told herself that she didn’t want Ash to marry her only because a rapid wedding would suit. Anyway, Damaris Myddleton would snap him up.

  “It is time I married,” Ash said, “though I doubt anything will convince the king that I’m a saint.”

  “He’s pragmatic enough to realize that if he surrounds himself only with saints he will wander empty rooms, and lack some excellent advisers. His Majesty does persist, however, in believing that marriage can save a sinner. Have you read my mother’s papers?”

  Genova looked up and saw the cousins assessing each other.

  “I haven’t read all of the journal, but it doesn’t paint a picture of cruelty.”

  “No, and I can pledge my conviction that my father was incapable of it. Perhaps he came to find her trying, however, so he may not have been a perfect husband.”

  “I found her trying and I was only reading her daily grievances.”

  Genova stood still, hardly breathing,
not wanting to break this crucial dialogue.

  Ash looked into the fire, then up. “Was she mad?”

  “In the end, certainly. Whatever led her to believe that Edith must die cannot have been sane. Earlier?”

  Rothgar shrugged. “We all walk an edge between sanity and insanity and can be pushed over by a powerful enough force.”

  Another edge, Genova thought.

  “Some require very little pressure,” Rothgar said. “I think you will have seen that she was unstable.”

  Ash turned to fully face his cousin. “Rumor said you would not marry because of the madness in your blood.”

  “We all walk that edge,” Rothgar repeated. “I came to understand that I was my father’s son as well as my mother’s, that I had kept my balance through trying times, and that the factors forming future generations cannot be predicted. And I had fallen in love.”

  “Love. Are men like you and I allowed to indulge in that degree of insanity?”

  Did Ash glance at her for a moment? Genova’s mouth dried and her heart beat faster.

  “It’s an unjust world if we’re not. Can we cry peace, Cousin?”

  Ash looked into the distance for so long that Genova wanted to speak just to break the silence. Then slowly, he said, “Peace be with you, and upon your house be peace.”

  Genova tried to not even breathe as the cousins shook hands and gave each other the kiss of peace.

  As they stepped apart, Ash said, “I would like to take the journal and some drawings to show to our grandmother.”

  Rothgar stilled. “I would prefer that they not be destroyed.”

  “I give you my word that they will return here safely.”

  “Then perhaps we could agree to an exchange of documents.”

  “For some that you would wish destroyed?” Ash asked, and Genova knew that was of great moment.

  “Precisely. We have no more need of weapons, I think.”

  “Nor of defense, I hope. Very well. I will arrange to have them delivered to you. Or perhaps you would trust me to destroy them and the supporting evidence. I will be thorough.”

  Now it was Rothgar who hesitated, but then he bowed. “My thanks. Now, excuse me but I should return to my guests.”

  He left the room and Genova exhaled.

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  Ash had turned to look into the fire. “The documents? I hold some work of his that in the right hands could destroy him.”

  She’d shared a more perilous edge than she’d known. “You would have used them?”

  He looked at her. “I don’t know. Do you approve of this peace?”

  “It’s not my place—”

  “To hell with that. Do you approve? Did I do the right thing?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  He turned back to the fire. “How pleasant to be so sure of everything.”

  Genova bit her lip. “I’ll leave you now,” she said, and headed for the door.

  He caught her hand as she passed. “Why? The night’s still young.”

  “And you’re in a mood best served by solitude.”

  “Foul, in other words.”

  “Yes.”

  He let go of her hand but stepped closer. “I might be improved by a taste of a sweet bread from Genova.”

  He lowered his head and nibbled gently at her lower lip.

  Chapter Forty

  Perhaps wine and spirits still raced in Genova’s blood. Perhaps the solution of so many problems made her delirious. At the first touch of his mouth, reason evaporated and molten need exploded.

  She pushed off his jacket as they kissed, unbuttoned his long waistcoat. A waistcoat button resisted and she wrenched it off so she could slide her arms around his strong torso, feel his heat beneath fine lawn.

  Distantly she thought, I just threw away diamonds!

  But her mind was all on him and the fire his mouth, his hands, his body, ignited. She’d wanted this for days—for a lifetime, it seemed—and she couldn’t fight it anymore.

  Their mouths slid apart and she explored his jaw, his ear, his throat, his wonderful taste and smell that made her purr deep in her throat.

  His cravat. It was in the way.

  She jerked out the jeweled pin, tossed it away, tugged loose the knot and discarded the length of silk and precious lace. To unbutton, to kiss, to nuzzle hot skin, to inhale him. Him. The only man to create this ecstasy in her.

  He was laughing, murmuring, nuzzling, nibbling.

  She dragged his shirt out of his breeches and he stepped back to pull it over his head and discard it.

  She held him off with her hands over his flat nipples, letting her eyes feast. “Even to a woman who’s seen many naked chests, yours is remarkable.”

  “Is it?” He put his hands to the front of her gown. “And you do not disappoint me, pandolcetta.”

  With a rake’s skill he’d loosened her clothes as they kissed. Her gown slid off her arms at his touch, and her loosened petticoats fell to the floor. She was in her stays over her shift, and he stroked up her sides.

  “You’re magnificent, Genni.”

  “I want to be. For you.”

  She wanted to eat him whole, as if starving, but this was good, too. This moment of pulsing restraint.

  She stood still as he dug into her hair and found pins, as she felt her hair tumble. He drew fingers through it, flaring it around her shoulders. Then he buried his face in it against her neck, inhaling like a drowning man bursting out of the water.

  They wove toward the bed twined around each other, she licking his strong neck, he squeezing her tingling breast. He dragged back the covers, then picked her up and laid her on smooth sheets, sliding his arms away, watching her with hot, dark intensity.

  She could imagine herself, mirror to her vision of him. Laughing, disordered, half naked, and crazed with desire. Slowly, loving every stormy look from those heavy-lidded eyes, she unhooked the front of her stays bottom to top, until her full breasts sprang free, now covered only by the delicate silk shift.

  His eyes were fixed there, so she cradled her breasts in her hands and offered them. He fell, catching himself on his arms over her, then lowered his head to mouth first one nipple, then the other.

  Heat shot through her thighs to burst in exquisite pain deep inside her, so she thrust up against him, seeking.

  A flicker of caution stirred. Too late, too late, because she would not give this up now, not even at threat of the hangman’s rope.

  He switched to kneeling over her, pushing up her shift to reveal her nakedness. No man had ever seen her there, but it felt right in the passionate admiration of his gaze. She helped him lift her shift over her head, then lay back down, his, as he should desire.

  Please.

  He knelt before her, magnificent in candlelight and firelight, and unfastened his already bulging velvet breeches. Slowly, he opened them, watching, smiling, as she inhaled, exhaled, and licked her dry lips.

  He rolled off the bed and stripped.

  She turned to watch. “You put Rothgar’s statues to shame.”

  He laughed. “I might be hard as stone, but I promise I’m anything but cold.”

  As he came back toward her, Genova realized she wasn’t naked. She was still wearing her stockings. She reached for one black garter, but he said thickly, “Keep them on.”

  He crawled up onto the bed and over her, pinning her hands on the pillow as he lowered his head to suck at first one, then the other nipple.

  Her body surged again, even more powerfully for being restrained. Still suckling, driving her wild, he put a knee between her legs, nudging her open. She spread herself willingly, wondering through fever if her virginity was going to spoil this.

  Nothing must spoil this.

  Surely she could hide the pain.

  Could a man tell?

  She heard her own deep-throated cry of need and then the hard pressure of him, there, against her burning hunger.

  She was sayin
g, “Yes, yes…” and then she cried it—“Yes!”—as he thrust hard and deep.

  Had there been a sting? It had been nothing, and she was tight and full. They were locked together now as she’d longed to be.

  Then he pulled back and thrust even deeper, then again, and again. Startled by the force, Genova faltered for a moment, but then she matched it, loving it, exulting in the fast, slick pounding that allowed not a breathless moment for anything but pure, blinding sensation.

  When she thought she’d reached her limit, he drove her on and fire exploded in her brain, searing away all reality except his body surging with hers, and then his shattering release.

  Her head was still full of fireworks, and she had her teeth sunk in his shoulder. She released him as they tumbled slowly down, him heavy over her, her boneless, liquid, sated.

  She stroked him, inhaling and exhaling as if breathing was a novelty. That had been insane. That had been wonderful. Having thrown herself into the ruinous flames, she wanted to do it again. She knew men needed time to recover. How much time?

  They didn’t have a night. Thalia would miss her, and Fitzroger would return here at some point.

  She tensed. Had they locked the door?

  As if he picked up her thought, he rolled to one side trailing kisses over her, then left the bed. As lordly naked as when in velvet and jewels, he strolled over to turn the key. Then he looked back at her as if she were the most beautiful object in the universe, and promised wordlessly that there would indeed be more.

  He went to a small table and poured brandy into a glass. One glass? He brought it back to the bed with a look in his eyes that made her feel that she might swoon down through the bed into the room below.

  “What?” she asked, and some instinct made her pull the sheet up over herself a bit.

  Smiling, he sat on the edge of the bed, facing her, so at ease with his naked virility that she wanted to eat him. Her whole life seemed to have shrunk down to the present. To this.

  He dipped a finger in the glass and traced her lips. Brandy magic teased her nose, and when she licked, it tantalized her tongue. He drank, then kissed her, sharing brandy heat.