Unveiling Love

by Vanessa Riley

  This is how she'd looked on their wedding night. Eyes large, shining in the candlelight, waiting for what he'd do next.

  Why wasn't he the first to behold her?

  And the only one. How could he not have known?

  Pride battered, he claimed her mouth again. Maybe their union now would assure her of his forgiveness and obscure all memories of others.

  Maybe it would reassure him too that she was still his.

  With one arm, he pushed away the bedclothes from the firm mattress below.

  Nails stroking his shoulder, she found that spot on his back, the tender muscle that could be scored with her name. She didn't want to be freed, and he wouldn't let her go.

  Her lips trembled beneath his. With a taste to her cheek, tears salted his tongue, seasoning the desire arcing inside. It had to be his name in her kiss, in her dreams, in her memories.

  He sought every part of her, branding her with fevered hands. Descending upon her, Barrington kissed her until both gasped for air.

  Chapter Six: Covering Darkness

  Amora opened her eyes to slits. Complete darkness surrounded her. Shivering, she wanted to close them again, but she couldn't. She had to know where she was. And where Barrington was too.

  She moved her feet against the bedsheets. Sheets meant Mayfair, her home with Barrington.

  Releasing a tight breath, she relaxed her coiled muscles a smidge. How to be sure? Filling her lungs to capacity, she shot up and grabbed the heavy silver candleholder from the bed table and swung in the chilly air.

  Nothing was there.

  She eased her weapon to the table then dropped to the mattress. Her candle had burnt out. Nothing more sinister. Letting the moonlight stream through the window, she fingered her matches and lit the stubby candle.

  Her bedchamber, the grey walls, the sturdy white painted furnishings, all came into focus. Heart light, she rolled onto her side to snuggle next to Barrington's sleep warmed form, but the bed was empty. Pulling the bed sheets up to her chin, she caught the scent of him, a pleasant mix of starch and rainwater.

  He must've gotten up to work. Very odd for him to do so and not make sure her candle was lit.

  But Barrington may have other things on his mind. Her lip curled up releasing the glow flowing in her heart.

  She'd told him.

  And he still loved her.

  Barrington was a good man, a good lover. Caring, thoughtful, nothing like the womanizing husbands of her cousins. But tonight, he was different. Unrestrained, maybe even out-of-control, not Barrington.

  His searing kisses made her feel more than treasured, more than safe. He needed her. It had been a long time since he'd been desperate to touch her.

  She fingered the outline of his empty space. This was a new beginning. They'd found each other again. She couldn't let his work separate them.

  Popping up, she scooped on her robe. With her candle in hand, she set out for him. The house lay dark and quiet. Her eyes adjusted. She felt secure with her candle's glow. Feet still bare, she traipsed down the stairs and turned toward his study.

  A small light came from his sealed door.

  She opened it and found a chilly room with her poor husband slumped at his desk. His tanned brow contrasting the white parchment and foolscap stacked about his head.

  Should she wake him? Would he begin asking questions she couldn't answer? Who did abducted her? Where did he drag her too?

  He'd been so kind and understanding, but his thirst for truth overpowered at times. Maybe they could search for them together.

  With Barrington still loving her, his strength would keep the memories from consuming her, wouldn't it?

  Courage faltering, she almost pivoted. But she couldn't leave him, not in this cold. His hip would ache. Being shot dragging his best friend's body out of the path of the enemy was something he didn't talk much about, but she knew he kept it in his heart everyday.

  Pattering to the hearth, she stoked the ashes. The dark gray and onyx char reminded her of charcoal sketches. For a moment, the poker was flint. She feathered along the grate. Maybe tomorrow she could make Barrington something.

  With a shake, she stopped woolgathering and pushed coals together. Their orange heat expanded and warmed the next lump. She dumped on a log. It sparked, then smoked, and finally caught. The hearth just needed tending. Maybe their marriage worked like that. With her deception cleared, the coals of their love could be stoked again. Smiling inside, she put a couple of logs in the fireplace.

  "Amora." His voice heavy with sleep reached her ears. She pivoted to him, but his face held stern lines.

  "Go back to bed, sweetheart."

  "I wanted to see about you." She lifted her hand to him. "Come with me."

  He didn't move. The blank look in his grey eyes cut through her.

  "I've a little more work to do. Go on, Amora. Return to your chambers."

  With his need for passion sated, was she of no use to him? The idea of them working together faded away. Her arms pimpled, but not from the cold. Those embraces meant good bye. She'd lost him. His heart was dead to her. Nodding, she rushed to the door.

  "I'll be up soon."

  No, he wouldn't. Work was his first love. Now maybe his only. "Take your time."

  On the other side of his door, she restrained herself from ramming her head. Her husband's pity was not needed. There was enough flowing from her own soul.

  Barrington swiped at his forehead. It wasn't particularly warm in the Old Bailey's courtroom today, but his thoughts blazed. In fact, if he wasn't careful, he'd scorch his horsehair wig.

  Order your thoughts, man. Difficult to do when out there in the world lived another man who tricked Amora.

  Discipline, man. Pretend Grandfather watched. In a few minutes, the verdict would be rendered. Had he done enough to defend his client to absolve him of theft?

  Half-listening would fail most. Luckily, Barrington wasn't most. Not when it came to the law. Yet, he must be a terrible man if his wife couldn't confide in him. Amora hadn't trusted his commitment, or she would have admitted the truth much earlier. Always working for others, perhaps he'd given her reasons to doubt his dedication to her and their marriage. Lord knows her miscarriage indicted him.

  Her words echoed in his ear, 'I was abducted'.

  He grabbed the table leg of the barrister's bench and imagined placing his palms about the neck of the man who had treated her so shamefully. Who did it?

  Could he forget it, being five years too late? Amora had.

  But had she? The fear of the dark, was it from her attacker? Always needing to know where Barrington was, was that too from the fiend? Or was it in the hopes of keeping Barrington in the dark? What else did she have to hide?

  And the way she dressed last night. Sheers, ruffles, textures that heightened his senses, his awareness of her. Was it all to manipulate him?

  He cracked his knuckles as the crowd in the courtroom laughed and hooted. He released his hold on the desk, but couldn't focus.

  Amora kept this dreadful secret and the villain never paid for hurting her.

  Unless there was no villain.

  A willing participant in a seduction would make for no crime. What was the truth? Was that why she couldn't tell Barrington?

  Exhaling, he wiped the moisture beading upon his brow. No more thoughts of what can't be changed. He told Amora the abduction was in the past. Now, he needed to convince himself.

  "Norton, are you well?" Hessing leaned closer. His onion-laced breath fouled the air.

  "I'm well." He pivoted in time to watch Lord Justice Burns hit his gavel against his desk. The elegant sleeves of his court silks billowed with each pound. "Take a moment, jurymen, and consider your verdict."

  Silence fell upon the crowd.

  For once, Barrington wished he could see the crimson color of the robe. From all accounts, the hue spoke of power, and the Lord Justice knew how to use it.

  The man leaned forward toward the jurymen. "Wh
at is the verdict?"

  The lead juror leapt up and straightened his waistcoat. "Not guilty, Lord Justice."

  The crowd erupted as the bailiff stepped forward and unchained Barrington's client.

  "Winner." Hessing tapped his shoulder. "Join me for dinner at my club, Norton. I'd like to discuss a case with you, one dealing with an old crime. It involves murder."

  "There's no time limit on murder." From the corner of his eye, Barrington spied Cynthia Miller waving to him from the gallery. "Sir."

  A chortle bubbled from Hessing. "I see why you've been distracted, Norton. Sly fox." The man leaned forward as his gaze seemed set on the pretty songstress in a tight blue gown. Its bodice was incredibly low. I'll be at my club, if you get your hands free." His mentor chuckled and left the courtroom.

  Barrington paced up the stairs. He didn't like Hessing thinking of Cynthia as a doxy. Though her choice of outfits needed more thought, she was Gerald's little sister. Someone who needed to be protected in her brother's absence.

  Cynthia lifted her hand to him, but he avoided clasping it.

  Instead, he folded his arms. No need to stoke gossip. He was a married man with a spotless reputation. Others might not think too kindly of such a fair woman warming to a mulatto. Barrington knew his limitations in society. "What are you doing here?"

  Cocking back her head, she pouted. Her lips thinned to a child-like frown. "You haven't answered any of my correspondences or come to one of my reviews."

  He leaned back on the knee wall of the gallery. "I've been very busy."

  With a light stroke, she patted his arm. "You're mad at me. I meant no harm to Mrs. Norton. How was I to know she'd get upset and jump from my carriage?"

  He cut his gaze to her. She leapt backwards as if she bled. "She didn't mention this. What made her upset?"

  She swiveled her long neck and waved to an admiring gentleman or two. "I'd rather not say here."

  Another of Amora's secrets. Yet, knowing the ladies fought wouldn't change things. He couldn't hold Cynthia responsible for his child's fate. The fault was his, for not being home to calm Amora down. For believing God cared enough to intervene.

  A huff left his lips. "Come. Follow me to a witness room."

  Down the stairs and to the right, he led her out of the courtroom through the hall to a small room. Once inside, he shut the door. Pulling off his wig and barrister's collar, he sat on the table's edge. "Miss Miller, I am very busy. Why are you here? I suspect it is not another theater invitation."

  Again with a pout, and this time tears, she approached. "But you've always made time for me."

  "Things are different. For some reason, you upset my wife. Could you tell me why?"

  She pivoted and sashayed in front of the window. "What did Amora say?"

  The urge to close the beige curtains to obscure onlookers from viewing the two of them pressed at his gut. He rubbed his brow. "This is my decision. I have to better prioritize my time."

  "No, this is her doing. She hates me, just because I mentioned telling you of her disappearance."

  Cynthia knew of the abduction? Her angelic looking face seemed to harden. Something in her squinting eyes looked vengeful. Why?

  Barrington took off his court silk and tried to appear aloof. "She didn't mention an incident in your carriage, but why don't you tell me what you know of her disappearance. You seem eager to say."

  Her eyes went wide as if she'd expected a different reaction. She dug into her reticule and pulled out a handkerchief. "I just know of the gossip. That she disappeared for one or two months. But she wants you to believe she waited for you like a saint."

  A month? Not a day or two. His throat became dry like a desert, one scorched by lies. Years of training kept his countenance even. Cynthia didn't need to see the venom building in his muscles. Forgetting became impossible. He had to know the name of the blackguard who ran away with Amora, an engaged woman. "Do you know where she went? With whom?"

  A tiny smile crept onto her face, but quickly disappeared. "No one knows. But I suspect it was one of the Charleton brothers." Her sweet tone took on haughty airs. "Both visited the Tomàs Orchards a great deal in your absence."

  The dowager's sons? The earl of Clanville? Or his younger brother, the rake Charleton? Which one had hurt Amora?

  "Did she mention that?" Bosom heaving, Cynthia leaned over the table. She was putting on quite a show, if someone were interested.

  He lifted his gaze to the window and hid his balling fists beneath his silk. He was a respected barrister not a young buck ready to bloody every nose.

  Cynthia put a hand on his shoulder. "But I need help. It's dire."

  "What?"

  She launched into his arms. So quick was the action, her straw bonnet fell away. Her chignon unraveled.

  His fingers tangled in the stiffness of the locks. "What is it, woman?"

  Cynthia clung to the lapels of his waistcoat. Fear laced her musical voice. "It's Gerald."

  "What about your brother?"

  She started to cry. "He's alive and in trouble."

  Nothing would be better than for the man who saved his life to be alive, but it wasn't possible. Barrington pushed free. "What type of joke is this?"

  "It's not a joke. He is alive."

  His voice strangled. Anger wrapped and crushed his windpipe like a hangman's noose. "Gerald Miller is deceased. I was there when he was shot. He took a bullet meant for me."

  "Did you see his last breath?" Sobs mixed with her words. "Did you watch them bury him?"

  "No, the surgeon was pulling lead out of my hide." His heart ached for his lost friend. What he wouldn't give for this to be true? But it wasn't. "Cynthia, I will take care of this."

  "Oh, Barrington." She kissed his cheek and tried to weave her arms about his waist.

  He moved her hands and tilted her chin up. "I will find this pretender and turn the fiend over to the runners. He'll never bother you with these lies again."

  "No. You mustn't. Gerald is alive, but he'll hang for what they accuse him of." She pulled away and dashed out the room.

  Some blackguard had convinced her he was Gerald. Another evil man attempted to hurt a woman, one under his protection. He couldn't save Amora from her fiend. Someone she ran away with for two months. But he'd stop this one. Barrington would make sure the blackguard paid dearly, either through the courts or fisticuffs.

  The sound of a creaking board forced a tremor up her spine. Amora wasn't alone in the pitch blackness. She stood and rammed into a wall. Clutching her knees, she sank deeper into the dark corner. No breathing, just hoping the monster hadn't heard her.

  "Hello."

  The muffled voice tried to coax her out of hiding. She willed her heart to beat slower. If she stayed hidden, he wouldn't touch her, not hurt her as he did Sar...

  Her temples throbbed. Her lost friend's name sat on her tongue, but she couldn't remember any more of it.

  She rubbed the vacant spot on her pinkie finger where Papa's ring once sat and tried to conjure up a plan. Something brave, worthy of the Tomàs blood flowing within her veins.

  Thump. Thump. Boot heels stopped seven, no six paces away.

  Pulse racing, she fingered the smooth wall hoping to pry loose a plank.

  "Amora?"

  Evil knew her name.

  The hushed tone sent shivers flooding her skin. She pivoted, reached up and clasped the edge of a heavy flat object. Cold, stone.

  "Stay back!" Her voice cracked. The intended warning sounded like a cat's purr.

  The large shadow came closer.

  She started hurling things--sticks, discs. Anything, she could fit within her palms. In the blackness, she couldn't discern the objects, but he wouldn't hurt her like the others, not without a fight.

  "Stop it, Amora."

  The swish of a match strike sounded and set a wall sconce ablaze.

  She squinted as a cold hard knot filled her middle.

  Barrington scraped at the gravy clinging to h
is jacket, chestnut brown on his stark onyx tailcoat. "What has gotten into you?"

  Light-headed, Amora rose from her corner and scanned the littered dining room. A spent candleholder and smashed fruit covered the mahogany hardwoods. Splattered walls framed Barrington's 6' 2" limbs. The pale silver paper treatment now bore drippy dark splotches. A piece of potato slipped down to the floor like an oozing snail.

  Barrington shook his head and pivoted away from the long table to yank the bell pull.

  Mayfair. She was at Mayfair, their London townhome. A puff of relief fled her mouth as she tugged on the itchy neck frill of her gown.

  "Answer me." The measured tone contrasted with his tight grip on his collar. He stripped off the tailcoat but even his cravat held stains. A portion of his short cut charcoal colored hair held a dollop of potatoes. He brushed it out with his wrist. "Amora?"

  "Sorry." She rounded the dining table and rushed toward him. With a napkin from their spoiled dinner, she sponged his shoulder. "I thought you were ..."

  "A burglar?" He grimaced. "I come home late and this is what I get."

  Balling the cloth, she reached up and wiped the tip of his nose. Splatter even dotted his spectacles. Yet the plains of his face were smooth, seemingly devoid of emotion. Where was the man who held her yesterday as if he were desperate for her love?

  The monster took that too.

  What was next, her sanity?

  Her eyes stung. "The candle must've gone out while I waited for you."

  He wrenched the napkin away. Noisy air fled his nostrils.

  His lips pressed together as he thumbed a smear of brown from his cheek. "I understand. All is well."

  How could it be? She looked down at the cluttered floor. The sketch she made from spent coal ash, the first drawing in years laid in a pile of broken plates. Destroyed, ruined like their dinner, she couldn't give it to Barrington now.

  He must be so tired of her excuses, her nightmares. She sighed. She was tired too.

  Barrington lifted her chin. "Was it another dream about the two months you were abducted?"