by Jo Beverley
He was standing on the stony edge of the river, with his creel nearby. He had stripped off his coat, waistcoat, and cravat and looked utterly wonderful in a white shirt, buckskins, and boots. His golden hair was curling wildly in the humid heat. He was lazily flicking a fly over the water but she suspected his mind wasn’t on the angling. The heavy weather made it unlikely he’d hook anything, even at the Magic Pool.
With a smile she moved back a little and managed to get out of her boots unaided. She stripped off her stockings and discarded her hat also. She wished she had the nerve to take off her habit as well—for even though it was a summer one it was devilishly hot—but she wasn’t at all sure what Randal would do if she went down to him in her shift. Probably not what she wanted him to. She compromised and removed the short spencer jacket, revealing a light lawn bodice.
Picking up her trailing blue skirt she ran swiftly down the slope to where he stood.
He was deep in thought and only turned at the last moment to catch her before she ran into the water.
“Sophie?” he gasped as he staggered.
“Who else?” she asked, taking a firm grip on his shirt so he couldn’t escape. “And don’t go dashing off. I’ve not come to torment you. I’ve just discovered what’s really been going on.”
He gently loosened her fingers from his shirt and she permitted it. He didn’t seem to be preparing for flight.
“Going on?” he asked, stooping to pick up his rod. He began to wind in his line.
Sophie allowed herself a brief adoration of his profile and then forced herself to look away. She had to keep this light, at least for a while. She picked up a smooth round stone, tested the feel of it, then skimmed it over the flat water. “Five,” she said triumphantly. “David made you think you had to be the very image of propriety to prove something to him, didn’t he, Randal?”
He laid the rod down and turned to face her. “Did he? He only echoed something in my own mind, Sophie.”
“And what was that?” she asked, shocked by his serious tone. When she’d finally got it all worked out was he going to start expressing doubts?
He broke eye contact and crouched down to search the stones. “I find it hard to believe I’m good enough, Sophie, strong enough ... David’s right to have doubts. I’ve played games all my life. I don’t even manage my own estates. I let Chelmly do it and just pocket the proceeds. I’ve always done just what I wanted, satisfied every whim ...”
He found a stone to suit him and stood to face her. “You’ve made me see life isn’t just games, Sophie, but I don’t know if I’m any good at anything else. I know my fatal charm. I did my best to protect you from it.” He looked down at the smooth brown pebble, turning it in his beautiful long fingers. “I couldn’t let you bind yourself to me unless I was sure I could hold you safe. Perhaps in spite of yourself,” he added wryly and turned to spin the stone hard out over the water.
“Seven,” he said.
She’d made him see ... Was he saying he just wanted to play games and viewed her as an end of all that? “Randal,” said Sophie desperately. “You don’t have to pretend to be noble. If you don’t want to marry me just say so and”—she grasped her courage—“and we’ll go on as we always have done. We’ll be friends.”
He turned sharply to face her and his eyes seemed to flash blue. “Friends! Sophie, we can never be friends again.”
“Why not?” she wailed.
He grasped her shoulders, stiff armed, as if he were holding her away. “Because if I can’t touch you,” he said desperately, “I’ll go mad. And touching isn’t enough.” Looking straight into her eyes he said, “And if another man ever touched you I’d kill him.”
Swallowing, Sophie pushed away the memory of Verderan. She had what she’d sought. Randal wanted her as desperately as she wanted him. Strangely, she found herself nervous—aware of a dangerous force she might not be able to control. “Can’t we be friends and lovers too?” she asked wistfully.
“I like playing games.”
His grip relaxed a little and he drew her against his body with what sounded like a groan. She could feel the heat of him through two thin layers of cloth and spread her hand on his chest to drink in the wonder of it.
“Perhaps we can,” he said softly against her ear. She could feel his fingers working gently at the back of her neck, stroking, cherishing. “But not just friends, Sophie. Never that. I’ve had a summer of that and it’s unendurable.”
There was honest desperation in his voice. Sophie looked up with a triumphant smile. “Is it over then? The testing time?” she asked. Those fingers were sending singing promises down her spine. She needed, desperately, to be kissed as he’d kissed her at the fair. And for a great deal longer.
He set her sharply away from him, tempering it with a grin. “No, it isn’t, minx. Not until next Wednesday.” He bent and chose a pebble, passing it to her. “Try and beat my score. You used to be better than that—” He broke off at the sound of a horse approaching.
They looked at each other, alarmed, but then laughed. “Even if they think this is improper,” said Sophie with a twinkle, raising her skirt to expose her bare ankles, “all they can do is make us get married.”
The Marquis of Chelmly came upon a scene of hilarity, leading his horse.
“Randal. Oh good,” he said, not appearing to find Sophie’s presence, barefoot and bareheaded, of any consequence. “Duke’s cast a shoe and I have an important meeting over at Radely. I saw Major back there. Can I take him?”
“Certainly,” said Randal. “I’ll walk Duke back.”
“Thank you.” The marquess frowned at Sophie. “There are some sharp stones here, you know. You should be more careful.” Then he turned and left. Sophie and Randal started laughing again.
“When his mind’s on business,” said Randal, “I don’t suppose he’d notice a full-fledged orgy.”
The word dropped into the sultry air and swam there invitingly. With regret, Sophie realized it wasn’t going to lead to appropriate action. Well, this moment was too precious to risk by pushing him.
She turned to the water with her chosen stone. “You challenged me,” she reminded him. “What do I get if I beat your score then, my lord?”
He’d gone to lounge against a large, smooth rock, his long strong legs stretched out, his sweat-damp shirt clinging to his torso. All gold and white and splendid. “A kiss,” he said softly.
Sophie felt her heart hesitate, then start a mad dance. “A proper one?” she inquired breathlessly.
He smiled in a way that raised the temperature a great many degrees. “No, my little flame. A very improper one.”
With a little sucked-in breath Sophie turned away from the vision he presented and licked her lips. She fingered the smooth stone and eyed the water. She felt as if this were the most important stone throw of her life. She remembered Randal first teaching her this skill when she’d been about ten—she’d lost a tooth that day and dropped it. He’d hunted amongst the rocks until he found it. It’s all in the wrist, he’d told her.
She flexed her wrist a couple of times. With a sinuous flick she skimmed the stone and counted, breath held.
One bounce, two, three, four, five, six, seven ... eight.
She turned to him in triumph.
They looked at each other across the small, pebbly beach, and Sophie could swear the world held its breath.
“Come here, then,” he said softly.
Sophie felt strangely shy and unsteady as she walked over the sandy stones toward him. He held out a hand and she put hers trustingly into it. He drew her to stand between his legs and rested his hands on her slim hips. It seemed the only thing to do was to lay her hands on his shoulders, sleekly muscled under the damp, fine lawn of his shirt.
She could see in his darkened eyes, feel in his hands that he desired her. With helpless impatience at herself Sophie knew even this wasn’t enough. Men desired all kinds of women. He’d desired many others in the past and she d
idn’t want to be just another such. He hadn’t wanted to marry any of them. Did he truly want to marry her?
She couldn’t find the courage to ask. She wanted this kiss. If, despite her hopes, it all went wrong and she had to set him free, she had to have something to remember it all by.
“Why the sudden capitulation?” she asked, her fingers kneading his shoulders with a will of their own.
“Well,” he said in a light tone which was belied by the expression in his eyes, “I’ve been used to considering Chelmly the epitome of virtue and if he wasn’t shocked ...” He pulled her a little tighter to his body and slid her down so she was sitting on one of his legs.
“But his mind was on business,” she said lightly to cover her nervousness. Her mind might be nervous but her fingers seemed to have a boldness all their own and were playing amongst the damp edges of his silky hair. “You’re hot,” she said to fill a silence.
“Extremely,” he responded with a thread of humor. One of his hands came to rest burningly against the side of her face and his thumb played against the corner of her mouth.
Sophie knew little of kisses but she mistrusted this hesitation. Was he going to renege? “You’re very slow to pay your debts, my lord,” she said tartly.
With a little laugh he pulled her forward and set his lips to hers. They were soft and gentle, unlike Verderan’s ... Sophie twined herself around him, feeling a magic sweep into her, expanding her and rendering her insubstantial as if she were a bubble floating. And yet she was safe in the cradle of his strong arms.
His tongue teased her lips. The thumb of the hand that cradled her face rubbed softly down her jaw, gently urging her mouth to open to him. For one moment she remembered Verderan and stiffened, but this was Randal and this was wonderful. She welcomed his tongue completely and the soft, tantalizing movements it was making. The taste of him was delicious—hot and spicy. She was fevered and aching but it was the sweetest fever she had ever known.
He pulled his lips away and held her close, crushingly close, burning with a heat that had nothing to do with a summer’s day. She heard his ragged breathing and felt the beating of his heart, faster even than her own.
Sophie grasped her courage. “Randal, do you really, really love me?”
He looked at her, dazed. “What?”
“Do you? I have to know. I know you ... you want me, but men can desire women without loving them ...” She fell to her knees between his legs, pressed hard against him and reached up her hands to frame his face. “Tell me you love me as much as I love you!”
He stopped breathing and stiffened.
“Damnation, Sophie!” he said and pushed her away. He strode to the water’s edge. He kneeled and scooped up water to drench his head. For a moment he held his wet hands pressed against his face. Crouched down on the rocky ground Sophie felt herself shrivel. Why hadn’t she been able to take the hunger if that was all there was?
He turned, dripping and looking slightly desperate. “How can you ask me that? Sophie, what I feel for you—”
He was cut off by the terrible screaming cry of an injured horse.
“Chelmly!” Randal said and set off at a run.
Sophie ran after him, her trailing skins and bare feet constantly in her way. She found Randal kneeling by the still figure of his brother while his beautiful gray gelding thrashed in agony nearby. She fell to her knees by his side.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he gasped. “Bad. He’s hit his head. Look to him, Sophie, while I tend to Major.”
There was blood on the back of the marquess’s head and his skin was pale and clammy, even in the heat. His breathing was shallow and ragged. An icy chill crept into her; then she jumped as a shot brought stillness to the woods.
Randal came back, almost as white as his brother, as she supposed she must be. They looked at each other and no words were needed. They clasped hands briefly.
“I’ll get help,” said Sophie. She wanted to do or say more but there was nothing to the purpose to say or do. She hitched her skirts up high and sprinted back down the path to where she had left her mare. She didn’t bother with her boots, hat, or jacket but hauled herself into the saddle and took off at a gallop toward the Towers.
Half an hour later she watched as the cart rolled up to the Towers with Chelmly flat out on a mattress in the back and Randal, still in his shirtsleeves, walking beside. The marquess had not regained consciousness but at least he still lived, for Randal was watching his brother as if his very concentration could keep him breathing.
By the time Chelmly was in his bed the doctor had arrived and a large part of the household hovered nearby, whispering anxiously. Sophie wanted to be with Randal but he was in Chelmly’s quarters with the doctor. She felt herself shiver despite the dreadful heat and when Verderan put an arm around her she leaned gratefully against him.
“It must have been a terrible blow to keep him unconscious so long,” she said anxiously.
“I’ve known people lose their wits for hours and still pull through,” Verderan said.
It was kind of him to try to keep her spirits up, but Sophie looked over to where the dowager duchess was sitting in a chair, looking gray and very old, and could not feel hopeful. Chloe Stanforth was beside her, holding her hand. Justin stood nearby. Everyone eyed the door to the marquess’s suite as if they could see through the oak. No one looked optimistic.
“What of the duke?” Sophie asked Verderan.
“This is his rest time,” he replied quietly. “The dowager decided not to wake him until there is some news. The shock ...”
The shock could kill him, Sophie supplied and another kind of horror crept around her. If Chelmly died, Randal would be the heir to the dukedom of Tyne. She looked around wildly and all she could see was the wealth and power and dignity of it all. The weight, the substance of it, seemed to press down on her soul, bringing blackness ...
She came to her senses in a chair. She felt dizzy and slightly nauseated, and hopelessly feeble to be giving way at such a time.
“I’m going to carry you to a bed,” said Verderan.
“Randal ...” protested Sophie faintly.
“You will be more help to him rested, Sophie.”
He swung her up into his arms and carried her away and she didn’t resist. At the moment she would be nothing but a burden to Randal.
Verderan left while a maid stripped off her habit and wiped her face and hands with a cool cloth. Perhaps most of her weakness was just the devilish heat ... but Randal must be as hot and she was deserting him.
Verderan came back and put a glass to her lips.
“I don’t need anything,” she said but he tipped it down her throat, and spluttering, she swallowed it, recognizing the bitter taste of laudanum.
“I can’t sleep now,” she protested.
“Yes, you can,” he said. “I’ll look after him for you but you must be ready to support him soon, Sophie. If the worst happens, you will have to be strong.”
“But I’m not strong,” Sophie said muzzily. “I’m a games player too ...”
“The only way to play games, Sophie, is to win.”
He watched while she drifted into sleep, then took a moment to stand looking out of the window, oblivious to the maid taking a watchful seat near the bed.
Verderan recognized the dimension of the tragedy which could befall the Ashbys, befall Randal and Sophie. He had little thought for Chelmly whom he had always thought of as a dull fellow, aware that the dull fellow disliked him intensely; but Chelmly ran the Duchy of Tyne and he stood between Randal and the dukedom. When they were young this had meant Chelmly had been raised to work and responsibility while Randal was encouraged to play, to do anything he wished as long as he didn’t cast an envious eye on his brother’s expectations.
Verderan looked suddenly at Sophie. Was that what she had meant by being a “games player”? It was either a very perceptive remark or the result of a recent conver
sation.
Randal hadn’t had to be forced into the role, of course. His volatile temperament was suited to the search for the new, to the accepting of purposeless challenges. Had his antipathy to responsibility been inborn, however, or carefully fostered by his father? The duke’s younger brother, Lord William, had apparently lusted after the title and honors and it had soured the family. The duke had done his best to avoid the same problem in his own family and had, perhaps, succeeded all too well.
If Chelmly died, would Randal be able to change? Would Sophie, another games player by her own admission, be a help or a hindrance? Before this morning’s conversation Verderan would have had little hope but now he thought the young woman on the bed had surprising and untested qualities.
He hoped Randal had too.
11
SOPHIE AWOKE in a darkened room, confused as to how she came there. In an instant, however, memory returned. The sick misery came with it but not, thank God, the panic.
She sat up slowly, feeling dizzy. The feeling would pass. It was still suffocatingly hot. A window stood open but no breath of air came in to refresh.
A maid rose to her feet and came forward. “Would you like some lemonade, milady. I have some here, still cool.”
“Yes, please.” Sophie drank gratefully and her mouth began to feel less disgusting.
She was in her chemise. She remembered Verderan. He had been kind and he had said Randal would need her.
She didn’t want to even put the question but forced it out. “Is there any news of the marquess?”
“There’s no change, milady,” said the maid soberly. No news was good news, Sophie told herself, but still she felt reluctant to leave the sanctuary of this room. Demands could be made of her, demands she was not sure she was able to meet. She needed Randal like she needed cool breezes and soft rain but that wasn’t possible. If Chelmly had not recovered, if he was worse, Randal needed her more. But he needed her strong. Better to hide here like a coward than to emerge just to put new burdens upon him.
