Scars Upon Her Heart (The Scars of The Heart Series)

by Sorcha MacMurrough

  “Vevina, I can’t stay. I have to report back to headquarters, and you need your rest. You’ve been through so much in the past few months, I can’t....”

  Vevina recognized the rejection, and angrily fought against it. She kissed him with such ardour as she boldly caressed him, that he could only yield, and within seconds, had divested himself of his breeches, and entered her with a hoarse cry of triumph.

  “Damn you for the most bewitching female a man could ever try to resist,” he said, plunging wholeheartedly into the roaring tide of their lovemaking.

  He filled her utterly with rapture, and she clung to him, near tears at the thought of how much she had missed him.

  Her first climax tore through her, and for her second, he rose up on his elbows to look at her in the light of the rising moon. He continued moving against her, the desire building to a fever pitch which could no longer be denied.

  “You are mine, the only woman I want. You can see it now, feel it."

  "Yes, oh yes."

  "I’ve never been unfaithful, in thought, word or deed. Forget about all the rest, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except this bliss between us.”

  Vevina nodded, “Forget about it all. Just love me, Stewart.”

  "I do. I do, so very much."

  He stroked her cheek, and with great restraint on his part, brought her to such heights of joy that she could only cry out his name, and lay limp and shuddering under him, her nails digging into his back and buttocks as he moved powerfully between her thighs.

  Though she tried to keep him with her for his climax, he pulled away, and spent himself next to her on the sheets, his body wracked with convulsions until at last he stilled. Then he hugged her with the arm still draped over her waist, and began to pull himself up off his stomach.

  Vevina gazed at him in dismay.

  “Stewart, why?” she pleaded, confused, not having the right words.

  “I can’t, Vevina, surely you must understand. It’s because I love you so much that I mustn’t. Not now, not yet.”

  “Is it your wounds? Are you ill?” Vevina asked with a gasp, and suddenly all her new-found trust was swept aside. He couldn’t have a disease, could he?

  He could sense the unspoken thought, and laughed harshly. “No, I don’t have any disease of that sort, and if I had, it would already be too late. So much for your trust in me, Madame,” he mocked. He rose from the bed and went over to the screened off toilette area. There he splashed himself all over with cold water from the basin, and then returned to the bed, and began to get dressed with his back to her.

  “Stewart, I’m not the one who has lied or deceived you! What else can I possibly think?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have the right words, Vevina, don’t you see? I can’t tell you how I feel, for now is not a time for explanations, and my damned stiff-necked pride is too big an obstacle at the moment. I've asked you to try to trust me. Where is all your talk of love and respect now?”

  “I’ve already told you, I shall go back to Ireland, and the marriage can be one in name only. I’ll never stand in the way of your happiness,” she replied shakily.

  Stewart knelt by her and kissed her. “And I have told you, I don’t accept your offer. What kind of man would I be if I threw you over and abandoned my entire family?”

  “So you’re staying with me out of duty rather than love, Stewart? That’s even worse!”

  “Vevina, I must go. Duty calls. It's only ever been duty that has kept me from you, whatever appearances might say to the contrary. Promise you’ll stay. I do need you, and I can't wait for us to be together again when it's safe for all of us."

  "I don't uynderstand. Why isn't it safe? You told that woman I was Samuel's wife. What is going on—"

  "It's a mission for Wellington. I can't say more than that. All I can promise is that if all this isn’t settled by the end of January, I’ll come home with you, duty to Wellington or not.”

  "Why not confide in me. Let me help—"

  He kissed her forcefully until all her questions were quashed.

  "Promise me you'll stay."

  “All right, I promise to stay a bit longer," she said breathlessly. "Will the children and I see you?”

  He shook his head. “It’s too risky for me to come here. But if I might be so bold as to suggest that you call on the Countess? Remember, she thinks you are Samuel’s wife, that he is still alive. Perhaps if you pretend to go along with things, we might get a bit more information.”

  Vevina sat up against the headboard of the bed. “You want me to sit in the same room with that woman?” she said in a dangerously flat tone.

  “Viv, please, she's Irish and married to a Spanish nobleman, but she's a spy for the French. She means nothing to me, never has!”

  “Then why did you want to elope with her? How do I know you won’t run off to France with? Nothing keeps you here with me, or in Ireland!”

  He ran his hand through his hair in exasperation. “Vevina, I won’t even dignify that with a response. All I will say is that you are far more intelligent than the Countess. You offered to help just a moment ago. If anyone apart from myself can discover their plans, find out the names of any other conspirators, it’s you,” Stewart said with a sigh, and say on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots and finish dressing.

  She sat silently listening to the buttons being fastened, the sword clinked on, and then she sighed. “All right, I’ll do it. Tomorrow?”

  “Thank you, love. And remember, keep control of that feisty little temper of yours.”

  “Sure, aren’t all we Irish savages?” Vevina joked, despite the crushing weight which had settled on her heart.

  “You are certainly the loveliest savage I’ve ever met. Just be careful. Elizabeth may not be smart, is far more ruthless than Samuel ever was,” Stewart warned.

  Then he pulled her up out of the bed and against him, his hands cupping the fullness of her buttocks as he held her as though he never wanted to let her go.

  “Keep this as a reminder of all we’ll share once this is over,” Stewart rasped. His mouth plundered hers, leaving her boneless with aching need.

  Then he was gone as silently as he had come, leaving Vevina alone, desperate with yearning for the man who had become her entire universe. And seemed to be once again in danger thanks to his brother Samuel.

  Chapter Forty-six

  True to her word, Vevina went to the house of the Contessa de Cristobal with Emma the next day, and left her card that she would call back later.

  Then they went to the shipping office, for Vevina had received word through the port authorities that the trunks Wilfred had requested from home had finally arrived.

  Vevina managed to secure a cart to take them back to Emma’s house and then she looked around at the different ships as long as she was at the port.

  Emma introduced her to the captain, Raoul Alba, who was meant to take her home should she so wish it.

  Emma was smiling brightly, perhaps a trifle too brightly, Vevina reflected. She wondered whether there were some sort of romantic intrigue going on between them, for as she broke off from their side to gaze over at a particularly fine ship, Vevina could hear them whispering urgently. They broke off as soon as she turned around to face them again.

  Vevina sensed danger, though she could not define it, and decided that she had to get a message to Wellington, to ask him if all was as it seemed. But how? He was on the move all the time, and she had heard rumours in the city that the French were trying to make a bold attempt to move into Portugal from the north, for troops had been sighted near Zamora.

  Vevina stiffened. Didn’t Emma and her husband, and the Countess for that matter, have estates in Zamora?

  Vevina watched her two companions carefully for some time, but could see nothing amiss.

  It was only when Emma said with a broad smile, “Raoul is leaving at the end of the week, for Plymouth. You can certainly go there first, and then onto Cork,” that
Vevina began to worry again.

  She knew from Wellington himself that Portuguese traders could not put into Plymouth or Portsmouth at all during the war, for fear of spying, and Vevina could only stare at the two with a new horror.

  “What is it Vevina, what’s the matter?” Emma demanded, her voice suddenly harsh.

  “Nothing, I just recalled a couple of gifts I need to get before Christmas," she lied. "Do you mind stopping at the shops on the way back?"

  "Not at all. Are you sure ther's nothing else troubling you?" the older woman asked.

  She managed to look contrite. "No, not at all. I want to thank you for your kind offer. But despite my upset yesterday, well, I've decided to stay here, at least until Wilfred arrives, and is well enough to travel back home.”

  The two exchanged looks, and Raoul gave her a dazzling smile which in a simpler woman might have caused heart palpitations.

  "Whatever you wish, Madame. I am at your service at any time."

  He bowed over her hand, and tried to kiss it lingeringly, but Vevina wrested it from him with a quick curtsey, and immune to his rakish charm, began to stroll away.

  “Well, we can’t stay here all day,” Emma chirped. “Shall we go back to the Contessa’s palace to see if she has returned? And then on to the shops from there.”

  “Yes, that’s a fine idea,” Vevina assented, feeling a sense of urgency. She was now on another mission for Wellington, and had no idea whom she could trust. Not even her own husband had been honest with her.

  She would have to wait until Wilfred arrived to decide what to do, but in the meantime, perhaps a visit to headquarters to shed some light on the matter? But again, who could she trust, and how could she slip away without Emma knowing? All of her acts of kindness by taking her around the city now seemed to have a far more sinister intent. The Marquesa had literally been watching her every move…

  The Contessa had in fact returned, and flitted about her salon like a glorious butterfly, smoking long thin cigars, and ordering mountains of refreshments to be brought.

  She eyed Vevina speculatively, which suggested they wanted to use her, but were not sure if they could trust her.

  Vevina sat there making small talk, but she recognized quite early on that she was being pumped for information about Wellington, his troop movements, and so on.

  Vevina munched marzipan with an innocent air and gave some vague information about all she had seen at Cuidad Roderigo and Salamanca, but affected not to even know where Badajoz was.

  Emma smiled and laughed, but Vevina could see she was still calculating at the back of her mind. Fortunately, Vevina had not spoken much of her war service, and she and Emma had not any particularly stimulating intellectual conversations.

  So who was Emma, really? Had Emma succeeding in winning Wellington’s confidence? Did she know all about Vevina’s journey to France? Had someone betrayed the Olivier brothers? Were they now in danger as well for having helped her?

  Vevina decided, however, that it didn’t matter. Emma had told her the Countess was a spy. Even if they knew all Vevina had done, they still had plans to use her if they could. It would just be more subtle, but nevertheless, she was certain she was being included in their plot.

  Perhaps they would try to use her or the children as hostages to ensure Stewart’s cooperation? The thought made her go weak at the knees, and eventually she persuaded Emma she was fatigued, and then hurried home.

  "And what about the shopping."

  "Oh, another day, perhaps," she said, giving herself the perfect excuse to try to slip out of the house when their guard was down. "Or else I can give you a little list, if I may."

  "Yes, of course, my dear."

  She affected deep yawn. "Oh my, I'm so tired all of a sudden."

  "Nerves, undoubtedly. But you held your head high at the Contessa's. I could tell she was most taken with you. Envious too, I'll be bound. She's not used to any other women giving her a run for her money."

  "Thank you, but what else could I do? It's the man's failing, not mine. I have nothing to be ashamed of."

  "Quite right, my dear, though I have to say, dashingly modern too. You know, Raoul was most taken with you and as the old proverb says, what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander as well."

  Vevina tried not to be ill or tell Emma exactly what she thought of her and the dissolute ship captain, but she kept her tone even as she replied, "Thank you, but no, really, I have far too full a life to pine for a lover, and as for repaying Stewart in kind, well, I'm above such strategems."

  She was relieved to see that they were pulling up in front of the townhouse, and got out without even waiting for a servant's assistance.

  "I'll just go lie down now, and see you later," she called over her shoulder as she flitted up the stairs.

  She was sure her supposed friend was starting to suspect that Vevina knew something was amiss. If only she knew what. Emma had seemed so genuine….

  Was there anyone in Lisbon she could trust?

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Later that evening, another alarm again went off in Vevina’s head when Emma insisted on loaning her a gown for the masquerade ball to be held on Christmas Eve, at which Wellington was certain to appear.

  “I have a marvellous gown, Helen of Troy, which I wore last year, and I think it would fit you with some alterations, and look marvelous,” Emma offered.

  When the gown was produced, it practically fit Vevina like a glove. Looking over Emma’s stocky and ample figure, she was certain her friend had never worn it in her life.

  So the gown had been made especially for her. Why go to so much trouble and expense?

  “It’s rather revealing in the bosom, Emma,” Vevina made a show of objecting.

  The smile froze on the other woman’s face.

  “Ah, but that's part of the fun. With this elegant helmet, you will not be recognized, and you may dance and flirt to your heart’s content,” Emma coaxed.

  The helmet fit snugly over Vevina’s head, and pulled down over most of her face. When she gazed in the mirror, she also realized that it covered over all of her shimmering auburn hair, unless of course she wore her hair down.

  “Should I wear my her up, or would Helen of Troy have allowed her locks to billow freely?” Vevina asked, with a sharp look at Emma which was concealed under the visor.

  “Oh, up, certainly.”

  Vevina took off the helmet, and then said, “They are lovely, thank you. It was so kind of you to think of me, Emma.”

  She kissed Emma on the cheek, and retired to her own room, where she sank onto the bed numbly. She tried not to let her anxiety get the better of her, but she also realistically assessed her situation.

  Emma was a spy, no doubt for the French. Even if she were working as a double agent with the English or Portuguese, Vevina was living in her house, and there was the safety of her four children to consider.

  Stewart was consorting with another known spy, and he seemed to trust Emma, since he had made no objection to her living there. Wilfred was ill, and might not arrive for days or even weeks.

  Andre and Vincent Olivier had warned of another invasion attempt being launched from France, but what if they were wrong? Or, if that were only part of the story? What if they had laid other plans as well to stop Wellington in his tracks? What of the troops in Zamora?

  The gown suggested part of the plan, but Vevina needed proof, something more concrete to help her thwart their schemes. Everyone would be disguised at the costume ball for the holidays. Why that particular gown? Emma was too heavy to wear it, but the Countess? She had a shorter and more full-blown figure than Vevina’s own, but the gown was so dazzling, it was sure to draw attention to the wearer in even the most crowded room.

  Vevina’s mind raced. Jeanne and Francis had the day off, so she went to the nursery to seek out Bob, and ask him to help her unpack the trunks Wilfred had had sent from Ireland.

  Bob had ceased to have painful headaches, but Ve
vina had given up any hope of his regaining his sight after several discouraging medical reports. But he was still very cheerful, and a marvel when it came to changing and feeding the children.

  “Mother,” he said quietly, after they had opened the trunks, and she was helping him to feel some of the old toys and dolls Wilfred had kindly sent for. “Mother, I’m certain you are worried about something. Tell me what it is.”

  Vevina was touched at how readily he had taken to calling her mother, instead of Viv, and how perceptive he had become since his blindness, attuned to every nuance and subtlety of people’s conversations.

  “Oh, Bob, I think we're in desperate trouble,” she whispered.