by Karen Ranney
Instead, she was his wife.
If he hadn’t read one particular article in the newspaper, he would never have begun a correspondence that led to his avocation, and in a way, his survival.
Shielded by the overgrown oaks and aspens of Doncaster Hall, he stood and listened to the droplets of rain falling from the leaves. A discordant melody having no rhyme, meter, or pattern. A reminder, perhaps, that he’d lost his own patterns in the last five years.
Once, the seasons had measured his life: planting, harvesting, drying tobacco being the framework for everything else. Now, he didn’t have that. Gleneagle and Virginia society had provided structure. Both had been a testing place for his manners, his charm, and his abilities.
Few of the great families were left; the stunning beauties were pale, wan, and ravaged by war, and wealth had disappeared. Any opportunities had bled into the earth along with the lifeblood of most of Virginia’s proud young men.
Here he was, though, a lord in a country he’d never considered home, heir to an estate and a fortune that made Gleneagle’s once not-inconsiderable affluence look paltry in comparison. He was steward of an empire requiring his participation and interest.
How was he going to be what Edmund decreed he should be, what Veronica no doubt deserved? How was he going to manage to be a proper Lord Fairfax, a decent, caring husband?
His nightly walks were commonplace to him now. In London, he’d almost welcomed the danger of them, even being so incautious as to head toward the center of the city, daring someone to accost him. No one had, and he’d been curiously disappointed.
He took the path down the hill to a shallow brook, tinted silver by a looming moon. He climbed to the top of a nearby hill, surveyed his gray-white kingdom, and felt loneliness pull at him as if it was a carrion bird pecking at his innards. At times, he wanted simply to dissolve into nothingness, or grip something tight and hold on to it in desperation.
Would the wagons arrive tomorrow? He’d already spotted an outbuilding he could convert to a work space. The structure had once been used to make whiskey, he’d been told, and was unsuitable to house animals. All he wanted was a tall, steep-roofed structure, with space enough to work on his navigational designs. The building, still referred to as the distillery, would fit his needs perfectly.
He kept walking. The night air was cool, but not so much he was uncomfortable. In the last five years, he’d endured worse conditions.
Montgomery, are you well?
“Caroline,” he said softly, and she appeared in the night like a creature crafted of moonbeams.
He knew she wasn’t real. None of the ghosts who visited him from time to time were real. Nor were they frightening. They didn’t come to castigate him or offer blame. They came to ease his heart, to numb the pain because he missed them so desperately he’d created them to make life bearable.
Walking through the Scots night, he acquainted himself and his ghosts with the terrain, the feel of the curving earth beneath his feet. He headed toward an outcropping of stone, only gray shapes layered over black, and listened to the sound of the river.
“It’s not the James,” he said. His ghosts didn’t answer.
You’re a lord, Alisdair said, a note of amusement in his voice.
“You would have been,” he answered. “If you hadn’t died.” Silence greeted that announcement.
He felt, rather than heard, Caroline’s disappointment. She never understood that brothers had a duty to aggravate one another.
Your wife knows you’re in pain, Caroline said.
He turned toward a lighter patch of tumbled rock. If Caroline were there, she’d be standing in the most prominent place. She liked the attention, always had a bit of drama about her. Was that why he’d ignored her? Because he’d no patience with histrionics?
You should tell her about us, Montgomery, she said.
He smiled. “That I see you? That I hear you?” he asked, facing the river, speaking to them in the silence of his mind.
You don’t, you know, she said, softly, so much compassion in her voice his heart felt as if it were being sliced in thin little strips.
“I want to,” he said.
Only the wind answered him, blowing his hair back, catching his coat, and billowing it around his torso. He closed his eyes, feeling the sharp bite of pain, the endlessness of it.
A little while later, he retraced his path back to the house, knowing sleep would come late that night, if at all. He’d become accustomed to his sleeplessness, accepting it as part of the price he paid for survival.
He’d known some poor souls who’d suffered head injuries in the war. They’d never been the same. Some had stared off into space as if seeing the past or the future. One or two had simply retreated into himself, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth as if trying to capture the time when he’d been a babe in his mother’s arms.
His war injuries had been slight: a piece of shrapnel lodged in his thigh from cannon misfire, a scar on his right knee from a bad landing. Memories that never left him.
In the next few days, he’d have something on which to concentrate, an occupation bridging his past and present. He needed something familiar, and his airships would provide that.
As he stood staring at the main part of the structure, lights greeted him from the family wing. He knew Veronica was still awake.
A silhouette stood at the window. Could she see him? If she did, what did she think about the strange American she’d married? Should he confess to her that he was still angry about their marriage? That he’d not wanted to be her savior and had become so reluctantly? What would Veronica say if he told her she annoyed him, confused him, and intrigued him too much for his peace of mind?
He could still feel her on his palms and the tips of his fingers, hear her soft moans, see the shocked awareness in her eyes as her body climaxed.
In her arms, he’d found intense pleasure.
Only a fool would resent that.
A few minutes later, he entered the house, took the stairs two at a time to his bedroom, passed through the lavatory to the sitting room, and opened the connecting door.
Veronica was standing there, still staring out at the night, a look he couldn’t quite decipher on her face.
“I thought you’d be asleep,” he said, walking toward her.
She turned to face him.
“I was waiting for you,” she said, surprising him. “Have you been walking the grounds?”
He nodded.
She didn’t ask what made him so restless, only reached out her hand to touch his arm. A gentle, wifely touch, one of reassurance and comfort. She’d done the same earlier, when he felt as if he were being pummeled by memory.
As he looked into her eyes, he wondered what, exactly, she felt from him. If he believed in such things.
He reached down and picked up her left hand. The back of her hand was soft, the tips of her fingers rough. Surprised, he examined her palm, and when she curled her fingers rather than allow him to see, he pulled her hand back.
“Why do you have scars on your hand?”
She looked away, and when he tried to uncurl her fingers, she pulled them back, wrapping her arms around her waist.
“Veronica,” he said gently. “It doesn’t matter to me. I merely wanted to know how you hurt yourself.”
She glanced quickly at him, then away, but didn’t answer.
He placed his hands on her arms, rubbed them slowly up and down, then gently pulled her into his embrace. Reluctantly, it seemed, she sighed and laid her head on his shoulder.
Surprisingly, he felt the cold hard center, that had been there since first viewing Doncaster Hall, begin to melt. Maybe this was what he needed, communion with another human being, the ability to touch someone, to feel her warmth.
Her breath tickled his neck, and he smiled. He turned his head a little, and kissed her forehead, the softness of her skin an attraction for his lips. His mouth trailed down her nose, over the edge of her jaw,
and up to her temple.
His hands flattened on her back as she wound her arms around his waist, anchoring him there. He closed his eyes, breathing the scent of Veronica: warm woman and roses. Comfort and welcome, soft curves and passion: a lure he didn’t want to ignore.
He released her from his embrace, but only enough to unfasten the buttons at her cuffs. She didn’t speak, didn’t question his actions. Slowly, he began to unbutton her bodice. Her eyes followed his progress, but she remained silent. He pulled her bodice free of her waistband and began to work on her skirt.
She stood, completely proper, yet about to become unveiled an inch at a time. Her bodice was open, but only a small square of skin was revealed. He bent to kiss that spot above her corset, feeling the increased pulse rate.
Although he would have liked to continue kissing his way down her body, he attended to his task, that of loosening the waistband of her skirt and freeing the tapes of her petticoat and hoops. If he’d been profligate, he would have simply sliced through them with a knife. He gave more than a passing thought to doing just that, with the reasoning he was wealthy again. What was money for if not to use it to one’s advantage? He could certainly afford a few dozen petticoats and hoops, but just as he was at the point of leaving her in search of a knife, the knot loosened in his fingers. Slowly, he allowed the hoops and petticoats to drift to the floor, along with Veronica’s skirt.
He slipped the bodice from her shoulders and watched as it slid down her arms, the material catching on her elbows. With a shake, Veronica loosened it, and it fell to the floor.
She was a Botticelli Venus. Instead of emerging naked from a shell, she stood straight, clad in her corset, shift, pantaloons, and stockings.
“Women wear entirely too many clothes,” he said.
She didn’t reply, but a look passed between them, one reminding him of yesterday.
He bent, pushing aside the frothy mountain of her garments to unfasten each shoe.
“Step up,” he said.
Veronica put her hands on his shoulders for balance, lifted her foot so he could remove her shoes, one at a time.
She sighed, and he glanced up to see her eyes close, a smile curve her lips.
“Your shoes don’t fit properly,” he said, wondering why he hadn’t noticed yesterday.
She looked down at him. “They aren’t actually my shoes,” she admitted. “They belong to my cousin, Anne.”
He sat back on his heels. “You don’t have shoes?”
“I lost mine at the Society, remember?” she said.
“Along with your spare shift?”
She nodded.
“But I gained a husband,” she said, before he could speak. Her glance encompassed the sitting room, the view beyond the darkened window. “And a palace in which to live. What’s a pair of shoes?”
“Gleneagle had its share of seamstresses,” he said. “No doubt Doncaster Hall does as well.”
“And cobblers?”
He nodded.
Her garters were next, lacy little bits of silk. He untied them, pulled them from her legs, slowly pushing down her stockings one leg at a time. Only then did he stand, to see her face had flushed, reminding him that his bride, despite her response to him, was only one day removed from her virginity.
She flattened her hands against her thighs and fisted them.
Her knees were so perfectly formed that he stroked his hands over each, his fingertips delicately tracing a pattern behind them. She moved her leg, and he looked up, to find her lips curved in a smile.
“Ticklish?” he asked.
She nodded.
His palms made a leisurely path down her legs to the delicate curves of her ankles, fingers playing across the top of each pretty foot. Her toes clenched in the carpet, inciting him to smile. He rubbed his fingers over the red spots on her toes, wishing he had noted her ill-fitting shoes before this.
Sitting back, he allowed his gaze to travel up her body, taking in the sight of Veronica being seduced.
Reaching up, he pulled at the drawstring of her pantaloons, then stripped the garment from her. The shift was entirely too modest, coming almost mid-thigh. He wanted her naked.
Without standing, he reached up and tugged at each corset string, grateful this knot, at least, was easily untied. When the corset was loosened, he grabbed it, hefted it in his hands, wondering why he hadn’t noticed a day ago how heavy it was. Her shift was a well-washed linen, so sheer he could see the red marks around her waist. Standing, he pulled her shift over her head, tracing each line the corset had made.
Her breasts were perfect globes, with large coral areolas surrounding beautiful long nipples.
Bending his head, he kissed an angry-looking mark trailing from the center of her breasts to just above her navel.
Her swift inhalation of breath made him smile.
Her eyes widened, and her color mounted as his hand trailed down to cup her gently. Her lips parted as she made a movement against his hand. The fluid slide of his fingers was enough to make her tremble. He turned his head, kissed her softly on the temple, and murmured her name. Her hand gripped his arm, and he stilled the action of his hand, waited to see if she would pull away. She remained where she was, her eyes closed, lips parted, and a pink flush coloring her cheeks.
He didn’t say a word, merely bent his head to kiss her lips lightly. Her mouth opened as she leaned toward him. He indulged himself in another kiss before pulling away. He had other things planned first.
He took her hand and walked her through the sitting room to his chamber. She pulled away at the door, returning to her room and extinguishing the lamp on the table before returning to his side.
Grabbing her hand again, he walked her up the steps and to the bed atop the dais. Only then did he release her, long enough to lift her in his arms and place her gently in the middle of the bed.
There she lay, a feast for him, her legs spread to reveal the glistening heart of her.
She was delicious, and he was so damn aroused he would have begged if she’d denied him.
He dragged off his shirt, his shoulders arching. He toed off his boots, watching her. Not once did she shield herself from him. Her arms rested at her sides, her hands flat against the coverlet. Her eyes were beginning to deepen in color, as if passion were heating her inside.
He wanted to explore every part of her. He wanted to taste and touch every inch.
Unfastening his trousers, he pulled his clothing off impatiently. Lowering himself to the bed, one hand traveled from her wrist, up her arm, across her shoulder, then down.
She sighed when he cupped a breast, teased the nipple. Slowly, his eyes still on hers so she’d have no doubt of his intent, he bent and took her nipple into his mouth. As he gently pulled with his lips, her hand came up to rest against his cheek.
His lips smoothed over her skin, teeth scraping against her curves as if to mark her as his. He was suddenly desperate to mate, urgent in a way he’d rarely been.
His fingers slid over her, into her as she flowed around him, liquid and soft. The feel of her was almost too much. Not yet. He wanted her panting and wanting before he entered her.
Her skin was flushed, felt hot; her eyes were closed as he drew small circles around her softness, moving faster, then slower.
“Montgomery.” His name was a siren call, a sweet, crooning sigh.
He raised his head, met her eyes, before moving down her body. When his mouth touched her, she gasped aloud in shock.
He placed his hands on each of her thighs, smoothing his palms against her heated skin as he spread her open. His mouth feasted on her as she made a sound in the back of her throat. Both of her hands flailed in the air, then gripped the coverlet. He felt her fingers dance across the top of his head, then her hips arch against him as he flicked his tongue across her.
She twisted in his grip as he tasted her, until she shuddered against him. and he was drenched with her passion.
He rose, looked at her. She
lay splayed across the bed, her legs spread, her arms outstretched, her breasts heaving.
Her taste was on his tongue, the need for her a pounding beat in his blood.
He slid into her, bracing himself on his forearms, playing with the damp tendrils of hair at her temples. He moved over her like a shadow, a promise. She moaned, called his name as he rocked back and forth until he’d seated himself completely in her. He could feel her clench around him, almost came at that moment, the pleasure crawling up his spine and shivering through his body.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her eyes opened, dazed, alarmed, and pleased all at once. He wanted to fill her, lose himself in her, bury himself in the sweet heat of her body.
In her, he sought both forgiveness and forgetfulness.
Veronica gripped his shoulders, pulled him to her with the tyranny of the aroused. Her eyes closed, and she peaked again, her surprised gasp of pleasure summoning another of his smiles.
A tear slipped down her cheek, and he closed his eyes at the sight of it, buried his face in her hair, and felt himself erupt in a gushing flood.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, held him tight. He moved to the side and pulled her atop him. She tucked her head against him, her breath against his neck. Her heartbeat mirrored his in its frenetic race. Her skin was damp; his hand stroked over the curve of her bottom possessively.
Words failed him. He couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. Not only was he physically sated, but he felt almost at peace, as if this act, this woman, had the power to reach deep inside and ease all the wounded places inside him.
A few moments later, she raised her head, propped her chin on her folded hands, and studied his face.
What did she see there?
Uncomfortable with her wordless inspection, he moved her away from him, suddenly hoping she wouldn’t speak.
When she was a little girl, Veronica had thought the world a magical place, where people like her, possessed of special gifts, were welcomed and understood. Maturity had left her with the knowledge people would never truly understand her Gift, and it was foolish to consider the world enchanted.
Yet, now, she wondered if she’d been wrong. What she’d felt with Montgomery had been nothing less than magic.
