Gifford's Lady

by Claire Thornton

  He resumed his gentle massage. 'What did Miss Wyndham tell you?' he asked, intrigued.

  'She said it was a very pleasant experience to share a bed with a man,' said Abigail. 'A well-formed man.

  Miss Wyndham was always partial to a handsome man.' She moved against Gifford, stroking his hard pectoral muscle in a languid gesture which stirred his blood. 'Miss Wyndham would have been very impressed by you,'' she murmured.

  'Indeed?' Gifford said warily. His perspective on Miss Wyndham was undergoing a radical amendment. 'I thought she was a very respectable old lady.'

  'Oh, she was,' Abigail assured him. She lifted her head to look down at him. Even in the flickering light of the candle he could see the mischievous expression on her face. 'But when she was younger, she wasn't respectable at all. She was...well, I mustn't tell you whose mistress she was, she made me promise to be discreet—but he was very wealthy and very indulgent. He died over thirty years ago, but he left instructions that Miss Wyndham was always to receive an annuity from his estate until the end of her life. His heir very honourably fulfilled his father's wishes.'

  'Good God!' said Gifford. 'So she was respectable for the last thirty years only?'

  'Yes. But she said that was long enough for the scandal to be dead and buried when she finally returned to Bath,' said Abigail. 'She could remember Beau Nash.' There was a note of awe in her voice. 'Back in the 1740s. She could tell wonderful stories.'

  'But in that case, why the devil did Johnson have such expectations of her?' Gifford demanded. This new information made it clear that Miss Wyndham had always lived on the favour of rich men. If Abigail had known it, why hadn't the woman's own nephew?

  Abigail's warm, relaxed body stiffened abruptly. Gifford silently cursed his unwary tongue. He hadn't meant to remind her of her ordeal. His question had been prompted by uncomplicated curiosity. His black rage against Charles Johnson was temporarily in abeyance. It was almost impossible for him to feel anything but slow-burning desire when Abigail was in his arms.

  'I don't think he knew,' she said, a note of tension in her voice. 'Charles was...is...only twenty-six. For all of his life she was respectable. Her sister—his grandmother—didn't approve of Miss Wyndham. It seems she expressed her disapproval by not talking about Miss Wyndham—rather than publicly condemning her. Charles's parents both died several years ago. So when he finally met Miss Wyndham he believed her to be what she appeared to be—a respectable old gentlewoman in very comfortable circumstances.'

  'So she trusted you with the truth, but not her great-nephew?' Gifford said. He stroked his large hands reassuringly up and down the soft warm skin of Abigail's back.

  He loved the way she moved responsively to his touch, even when her attention seemed to be entirely focussed on their conversation. She was as naturally sensuous as a cat. Just thinking about the way he'd found her standing in the rain, with her top buttons undone and her head thrown back to feel the water on her skin made his body harden with renewed desire. Right now he wasn't willing to think beyond the end of the night—or even the edge of the bed. There would be consequences for what he'd done—but he'd spent his adult life dealing with consequences. Tonight,

  while the rain fell and Abigail nestled in his arms, he would take a holiday from responsibility.

  'She wanted Charles to think well of her,' Abigail said, distracting Gifford from his increasing arousal by the outrageous nature of her statement. 'But I'm not quite sure she trusted him,' she added, over the top of Gifford's scornful exclamation at her previous comment.

  'If she didn't trust him, why was she so pleased to see him?' Gifford demanded. 'According to what you said, when he arrived in Bath—'

  'I know. I know.' Abigail frowned, biting her lip. 'She was pleased to see him,' she said. 'He was charming and attentive. She wanted to think well of him— and have him think well of her—because he was her only relative. I think it hurt her that her sister disowned her so completely. I think Miss Wyndham wanted to trust Charles—but deep down she wasn't really sure that she could.'

  'Were there any jewels?' Gifford asked, remembering Johnson's main grievance had been the absence of expensive jewellery.

  'I think there probably were. Men do give their mistresses jewellery, don't they? But I never saw any. Bessie said she sold them—to pay for "unforeseen expenses".'

  'Charles Johnson,' said Gifford grimly.

  'Don't think about him now,' Abigail begged. She circled her fingertips beguiling over his chest, playing teasingly with the dark hair she found there. 'I didn't tell Miss Wyndham about you,' she said musingly. 'I'm sorry you never met her. But I was afraid—if she

  knew you were in the habit of sleeping naked—she might have wanted to exchange bedchambers with me.'

  'What?' Gifford half-rose from the bed in shocked disbelief at Abigail's demure statement. 'You little vixen!' He rolled her on to her back and pinned her down with his large body. 'The woman was old enough to be my grandmother!'

  'I know. But she still appreciated what she called "a fine specimen of manhood",' Abigail replied. As she spoke she delicately investigated the muscles along Gifford's side with her fingertips.

  'And she taught you how to appreciate one too?' Gifford said tautly. His body tensed with arousal beneath her sensuous exploration.

  'Yes. But it turned out there were large gaps in the things she told me,' Abigail said breathlessly.

  'Perhaps I could help you with those...gaps,' Gifford said, moving suggestively against her.

  'You...already did!' Abigail gasped. 'Oh, my goodness!'

  'And she left you all her clothes,' Gifford said, suddenly struck by the significance of that. The mistress of a wealthy man had no doubt dressed not only to impress, but to draw attention to her feminine charms. The image of Abigail in a seductive silk gown was irresistible. 'You must wear one of her dresses tomorrow,' he said hoarsely. 'In the evening.'

  Abigail froze. Gifford's large body was still poised above her. His virile strength surrounded her. His erection pressed demandingly against her stomach. She had only to move a little to accommodate him, and she knew he would soon be inside her.

  But he'd just called forth her own secret, never to be admitted to anyone, belief about Miss Wyndham's generous bequest. Abigail was sure Miss Wyndham had left her the exquisite gowns to help her attract the attention of a rich protector. Such finery would be of little use to a respectable governess or companion. An elegant appearance would hardly be sufficient to counterbalance her lack of fortune for a man in search of a wife, but a man looking for a compliant mistress might well appreciate Miss Wyndham's taste in clothes.

  Gifford had not said one loving word to her since she'd surrendered herself to him so completely. He'd teased her about the coupling of horses, and questioned her about Miss Wyndham and Charles Johnson—but he hadn't said a single thing about the two of them. Or what the future held for them now.

  Abigail closed her eyes. Shame rolled over her in suffocating waves. Her own feelings for Gifford were so strong she'd foolishly assumed his feelings for her were just as compelling. Now she realised she'd mistaken male lust for a tenderer emotion. After all, he had bought her from Charles Johnson. No wonder he felt he was entitled to enjoy the pleasure of his purchase.

  Abigail was fascinated by what she privately thought of as Miss Wyndham's mistress gowns. She wanted to wear them, to have the opportunity of looking pretty and seductive instead of dowdy and old-maidish. But she wasn't going to settle for being Gifford's mistress—even if he had rescued her from Charles's grotesque plans for her. What had been good enough for

  Miss Wyndham was not going to be good enough for Abigail.

  Gifford's very male, rampantly aroused body was still poised above her. She could feel the tautness in his muscles, the urgency of his desire. Despite her intellectual determination to resist him her body responded to his. Instinctively, almost against her will, her legs began to open for him. Her hands still held him tight. She wanted him to
give her all the exquisite pleasure she'd already found once in his arms tonight.

  But it was wrong.

  'No,' she whispered desperately.

  'What?'

  'No!' she repeated fiercely. Somehow she found the strength and resolution to put her hands flat against his chest and thrust him away.

  He rolled on to his side next to her. She could feel him tremble as he fought to control the demands of his powerfully aroused body.

  'What's wrong?' His voice sounded strained. Gritty. 'Did I hurt you earlier?' A second later his hand curved gently over her hip and downwards across her stomach. 'Are you sore?'

  'Don't touch me!' Abigail pushed his hand away. What should have been a considerate question seemed to her to be motivated by simple practicality. She knew that a reasonable man—in most respects Gifford was a reasonable man—would make a point of breaking in a new horse gently. No doubt he would also take pains to break in his new mistress gently.

  'What's the matter?' he demanded, brusque and impatient.

  Abigail resisted the desire to turn onto her side and curl up into a protective ball. It was her fault she'd unintentionally misled Gifford about her expectations. Now she had to deal with the matter with as much dignity as possible. Her throat was so tight it was difficult to speak, but at last she managed to do so.

  'I would like you to get out of my bed,' she said jerkily. 'If you please.'

  'I don't please.' Gifford sounded angry. 'Not until you tell me why.'

  'I'm not obliged to offer you an explanation.' She clutched the edge of the sheet in desperate fists.

  'It's a bit late to plead offended modesty!' he rasped.

  'I'm not pleading anything!' Abigail retorted. 'I told...I asked you to get out of my bed.'

  'You pleaded earlier!' Gifford shot back, physical frustration and emotional confusion overcoming his discretion. 'When you wanted me to move like that damn stallion you compared me to.'

  'How could you! How could you remind me of that?' Abigail resisted the urge to pull the sheet up over her head. She was desperate to retain her dignity. She just didn't quite know how.

  'It was my performance you disparaged!' Gifford felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach by the hated stallion.

  His emotions were raw and exposed. For the first time in months he'd felt relaxed. At peace with himself and the rest of the world. Abigail had given herself to him so generously. Even her heedless comment about horses had filled him with tender amusement. He'd in-

  terpreted her words as a sign of her innocence and enchanting openness.

  But now she'd withdrawn from him. Rejected his touch and closed her thoughts to him. He was exiled from her bed, no doubt from the confines of her room—and it wasn't even morning.

  She waited, lying rigidly on her back, not saying anything.

  Gifford got out of bed. It was still raining. He found his wet breeches and pulled them on. It was an unpleasant experience. His hot flesh cringed from the cold, clammy cloth.

  'We will talk in the morning,' he said stiffly. 'Goodnight, Miss Summers.'

  Abigail waited until she heard the door close, then she rolled on to her side and drew her knees up to her chest. A few seconds later she pulled the sheet over her head and buried her face in the pillow to muffle the sound of her tears.

  She cried for a long time. The tears were a welcome release for the tension of the past few days. But at last she dried her eyes and took stock of the situation. Her emotions were in a state of such tumult she wasn't sure what she thought or felt. She knew only one thing for sure. She could no longer allow Gifford Raven to arrange her life for her. She would be forever grateful he had rescued her from Charles Johnson. She had no doubt that Gifford was a compassionate, honourable man. The most honourable, compassionate, heroic man she'd ever met. But she was not going to become his mistress—without even the courtesy of an invitation!

  How dare he tell her what to wear tomorrow!

  She held tight to her indignation over that minor example of his high-handedness to protect herself from deeper, more painful emotions. He'd made love to her, but he didn't love her. Abigail had discovered she was greedier than she'd ever believed possible. She didn't just want his body—or even the jewels and fine clothes he would no doubt lavish on his mistress—she wanted his heart.

  She rolled on to her back, listened to the rain, and frowned thoughtfully up at the ceiling. Perhaps she should think of it as a sort of cutting-out action. The kind of naval manouevre Admiral Pullen had told her about, where an enemy ship anchored safely in one of its own harbours was captured by stealth. According to the admiral, Gifford had excelled in leading such dangerous missions. She wondered how she could apply such tactics to a more peaceful enterprise. She wanted to capture his heart...his love.

  The following morning Abigail discovered, not greatly to her surprise, that her green dress was not only still soaking wet—it had also been torn beyond repair. She flushed with self-consciousness at the memory of how it had been ripped. In her own secret heart she had no hesitation in admitting how wonderful Gifford's lovemaking had been. She drew courage as well as reassurance from the memory of his tender caresses. But it shouldn't have happened. She shouldn't have let it happen. It was entirely her fault if Gifford believed she was prepared to sell herself for nice

  dresses and jewellery. Somehow she had to repair the damage her heedless behaviour had done.

  Mrs Chesney had sent all Abigail's clothes to the inn, including the dresses she had inherited from Miss Wyndham; but in the circumstances it was clearly unthinkable that she wear one of Miss Wyndham's gowns. She chose instead her primrose muslin and piled her hair carefully under a modest cap. But when she was ready, she could barely find the courage to go downstairs to the parlour. To face Gifford...and Anthony.

  Her cheeks burned at the thought of seeing Anthony. Would he guess what had taken place between her and his cousin? She hadn't given his presence a thought the previous night, but now she was ashamed to face him.

  And she was afraid to face Gifford.

  Despite the optimistic plans she had made she wanted to hide. To escape. To pretend the events of the last few days had never happened.

  No. She laid a hand instinctively against the pit of her stomach. She could never regret what had happened last night. It was a memory she would treasure all her life.

  But it was necessary for her self-respect to pretend it hadn't happened. Even though she felt sure the changes that had taken place in her must be obvious for all to see, she knew she had to walk down the stairs and look both men straight in the eye. Show them she was still in control of her future.

  Her mouth was dry. Her throat so tight she could hardly swallow. Her heart raced. She felt sick with anxiety. She stood gripping the door handle for several

  minutes as she tried to summon the courage she needed to leave the bedchamber.

  At last she lifted her chin, opened the door, and prepared to confront the hazards of the world beyond the safety of her room. She descended the stairs one step at a time, then faltered outside the parlour. She could hear voices inside. She wasn't sure whether it would be easier to face Gifford and Anthony for the first time separately or together. If they were together, it would presumably limit what Gifford felt able to say to her— but would her self-consciousness at the knowledge Anthony was observing their interaction outweigh that advantage?

  She swallowed and pushed open the parlour door.

  At the sound of her entrance, both occupants of the parlour looked in her direction. She stopped quite still, her thoughts knocked out of kilter by the unexpected sight of Admiral Pullen rising and hurrying towards her.

  'Miss Summers!' he exclaimed. 'Miss Summers! Have you recovered from your ordeal?'

  'M-my ordeal?' Abigail stammered as he seized her hand in a warm, encouraging grasp. Her mind was full of Gifford and the way he'd made love to her. She'd almost forgotten that Charles Johnson had abducted her. 'Oh... Yes,' she assured the
admiral. 'I am quite well.'

  Despite herself, her eyes scanned the room for Gifford, even though she'd seen immediately that only Anthony and Admiral Pullen were present. Where was he?

  She half-turned towards the door, even though the admiral still had hold of her and was still talking to her. She barely comprehended what he was saying.

  'Gifford went for a walk,' Anthony said quietly. Her eyes jerked to his face. He smiled at her with all his customary friendliness. 'May 1 pour you some tea?'

  'Thank you.' Abigail finally remembered her manners enough to pay attention to Admiral Pullen. 'I'm so sorry,' she apologised. 'I confess, I am still a little distracted by what happened.'

  'And no wonder. Come and sit down.' The admiral towed her to one of the parlour chairs. 'A terrible ordeal for you. But you'll be pleased to know we've routed out that nest of vipers!'

  'What?' Abigail glanced from Anthony to Pullen in confusion. 'What do you mean?'

  'We visited the Blue Buck yesterday!' Pullen announced triumphantly. 'Anderson, Tidewell and myself, and a couple of magistrates. Took along some stout-hearted fellows to reinforce our orders. Wouldn't believe some of the things we found. Closed the whole place down.'

  'You did? Mr Tidewell went with you?' Abigail found it difficult to imagine the precise lawyer taking part in a raid upon the unsavoury inn.

  'Very hot to join us, he was,' said the admiral with satisfaction. 'A good man in a tight spot.'

  'Good grief,' said Abigail. With the best will in the world, she found it quite difficult to imagine Mr Tidewell fighting his way out of a tight spot. 'What about...?' She hesitated, reluctant to ask the most im-

  portant question. 'What about Charles?' she whispered. 'What...? Was...?'

  'He wasn't there, confound him!' Admiral Pullen punched his fist into the palm of his other hand. 'But we'll catch the black-hearted—' He broke off, looking at Abigail with gruff discomfort. 'Never fear, my dear,' he said. 'We'll catch him. He won't get away with what he did.'

  Abigail didn't like to think about Charles. She'd been afraid of him when he had her in his power. She hated him. But she didn't want to think about him. She didn't want what he'd done to change the way she thought or acted. If she let that happen, he would still have power over her.