The shock of his fingers inside her wet folds made her cry out aloud. His palm pressed at the moist surface, his fingers retreating and entering again. Rebecca found herself short of breath. Her body was suddenly humming with sensations so new. His mouth moved up to her face and captured her lips again, his fingers were still relentless on their sweet torment.
She was possessed by him. He had enthralled her body in a timeless, frenzied world of sensation and passion. The climax exploded within her with the awesome power of a summer storm. Somewhere in a more conscious world, she could hear a woman’s voice—no, it was her own voice—crying out exultantly. Her hands were pushing him away the same time that she fought fiercely to hold him closer. She could not breath. And then, she was simply sailing through a crystalline sky, colors she had never before seen flashing around her as she soared.
Stanmore held her as she descended, kissing her softly until she found she was still in his arms. A moment later, he turned her slightly and began pulling roughly on the laces of the dress.
The sensations in her body continued to recede in waves, but as he worked at the clothing, she felt her excitement and desire growing once again. She heard a tear in the gown, felt the hardness of him through the layers of clothes and shivered in anticipation of what was yet to come. Suddenly, he pulled her to her feet and peeled the dress and petticoats without ceremony from her body. Sweeping her into his arms, he kicked the pool of clothing clear. Bare to the skin and vulnerable to the onslaught of his gaze and his lips, she arched her back, offering herself willingly to him as he placed her once again on the bed.
Even in the haze of frenzied delight that followed, even as his mouth moved over her belly, her thighs, loving her in ways that made her cry out for release…even then, he astonished her. Wave after wave assailed her, lifted her, shattered her, and still he continued.
Even then—her bones dissolved into liquid, her flesh tingling and spent—he refused to shed his own clothes and take from her even a little of the joy he was so generously giving.
Later, Rebecca cried softly as she lay tenderly enfolded in his arms. She cried because he was granting a wish—giving her that memory—but that was all he was willing to give.
CHAPTER 26
Dawn lightened the sky beyond the hills far to the east, but still Stanmore had no desire to leave Rebecca’s bed. For the first time in his life, he wanted to stay, cherishing the spell she’d cast over his heart.
He’d had many hours to think during the night. Many hours to recollect everything that had been said and done between them. Many hours to contemplate his life.
Stanmore had always recognized the emptiness that had defined him. He’d learned long ago to accept it as a way of life. But everything had changed the moment she stepped into his life.
Rebecca made a small sound in her sleep, and he felt his throat tighten. Stirring a little, she reached for him just as she’d done numerous times during the night. He placed a kiss against her brow and tightened his own arms around her, pressing her head against his chest.
Last night had been a first for her…and a first for him.
For her, it had offered the first experience of her birthright as a woman. For him, it had offered the first realization that an ache of a longing heart ran far deeper than the throb of a body’s desires. Somewhere between the time her eyes had closed and the first gray hint of day, he’d come to the realization that no matter what the obstacles were between them, he could not let her go. Somewhere, somehow, the union of two hearts had emerged from a woman who had feared passion and a man who had feared love. Last night, he had found that the two of them had formed a bond. For love…for life…forever.
He needed her. Although he’d not said the words, he now understood the meaning of love. He wanted to marry her, have children with her, grow old with her. But having heard the determination in her voice last night—understanding her devotion and her willingness to sacrifice herself—he knew she would not agree to stay unless he could solve the mystery of her past and release her from its stranglehold.
From all that she’d told him and all he’d learned from Oliver Birch, Stanmore did not have to stretch his brain to guess that a crime must have been committed the night she had fled. Whatever the crime, he knew that scandal was attached to it.
Before last night, he’d known that she harbored a deep fear of men. He remembered their kiss by the old mill, her panic whenever she came near him, their picnic by the stream. Rebecca’s words came back to him— it would be much easier…safer…if others saw me as a married woman…. I could keep off the men’s attentions… He wondered if the crime involved a man…perhaps an attack on her.
She had the beauty of an angel and the integrity and industry of a saint, and yet she was twenty-eight years old and still a virgin. He brushed his lips against her sleeping brow and tried to not think of the smooth, naked body beneath the linen sheets. His virgin, he repeated silently, ignoring the ache in his tightening loins. After last night, he was a candidate for sainthood himself.
Six days! She had threatened to leave in six days. Oliver was on the right trail. What he’d discovered corresponded perfectly with everything that Rebecca had revealed last night. But six days was too short a time to solve the rest.
Stanmore knew he had to convince her, charm her, make her as mad about him as he was about her. Perhaps then she would listen to his plea for more time.
The soft knock on the door woke Rebecca with a start. She clutched at the sheets before looking frantically up into his face. Her voice was a panicked whisper. “Jamey!”
“I latched the door…” he whispered back before being pushed out of bed ahead of her.
He watched with great interest her attempt at modesty in her haste to pull on a robe. The sheet, dragged from the bed, successfully covered her breasts, but Stanmore had an unobstructed view of her flawless back and perfect bottom. He wondered how it was that he’d lasted through the night, and what he could possibly have been thinking of, for now he couldn’t wait to make love to her.
There was another soft knock, and Rebecca turned to him pleadingly as she wrapped the robe around her. “He cannot find you here! What am I to do?”
Stanmore rose from the edge of the bed and, before she could object, planted a kiss on her full lips. “Send him to the stables. Tell him I want to meet him there in half an hour.” He ran his finger down her neck and into the open neckline of the robe. She colored beautifully and caught his hand. “I seem to recall some pixy tricking me into giving an hour of each day to a certain lad. Well, tell him this is the designated hour, and he’d better not keep the earl of Stanmore waiting.”
Brightening, she gave him a quick and affectionate hug and ran to the door.
Standing in the shadows of the room, Stanmore watched them. He was a fool. What he witnessed pass between them—the touch, the soft word, the embrace—made him understand for the first time the nature of the bond between Rebecca and James. This wasn’t attachment, as he previously had called it. This was love.
***
The smell of hay and horses drifted out of the open doors of the stables and mixed in with the dampness of dawn. Jamey took a deep breath and savored the already familiar scent. Since being allowed to choose a pony of his own four days ago, he’d come back to the stables everyday—insisting on learning how to take care of Strawberry himself. Porson, the groom who had been teaching Jamey things about the horses, had laughed and had asked the reason for the name. Jamey explained that the reddish mane of the large pony reminded him of the strawberries and, besides that, he lived in Strawberry Alley in Philadelphia. The pony made him feel like he was at home.
Porson stopped laughing.
Jamey walked inside of the stables and went to the stall where his pony was waiting. He didn’t know how he felt about going riding with the earl every morning. His mama had insisted on it, so he knew he had to do it. But he couldn’t wonder if this was the earl’s doing, or if he was being forced, l
ike Jamey himself, to go along.
The problem was that he just didn’t know how he felt about the earl of Stanmore anymore. He still didn’t want to like him. He could never be a replacement for the parent that he already had. But at the same time, he’d heard so many workers praise him at Solgrave that Jamey was having a hard time believing that he could be too bad of a person.
The earl of Stanmore is the only one who can make a difference, Mr. Clarke had said when Jamey asked the teacher about the use of slaves at Melbury Hall.
Jamey remembered his own conversation with Israel and his friend’s challenge. If he is such a good man, then why don’t you want him for a father?
Confusion battering his brain, he began saddling the pony. He didn’t know where to start—how to take the first step so the man would like him. He didn’t know how a son could make his own father accept him.
“Well, I am glad to see you are an early riser.”
Jamey whirled and stared at the open door of the stall and at Lord Stanmore standing in it. Habit kept the boy from speaking, but he nodded in greeting. He shot a second look at the man, though. Stanmore looked different today. It was the curious expression in his face, as if he were really looking at Jamey. The earl gazed at the pony—and then back at him.
“That’s a rather spirited pony. It takes a fearless lad to handle one that lively so soon after learning to ride!”
Jamey looked away, but felt a strange feeling of pride wash through him.
“I assume you have had no breakfast yet?”
He shook his head.
“Nor I. And I am hungry, too. But I suppose a good morning’s ride will help run off some of this Parliamentary fat, eh?”
Jamey stared at the man. He was as fit as anyone he’d ever known, tall and muscular. A groom appeared, leading the earl’s black hunter past the stall.
“Nonetheless, go easy on me this morning, will you?”
He turned to go, and Jamey turned to hide the unexpected grin tugging at his lips.
When they were outside in the stable yard, Porson the groom appeared and talked to the earl for a moment about what he had and had not taught Jamey so far.
“I thought we’d head toward that gamekeeper’s cottage this morning,” Lord Stanmore said as the two of them trotted their mounts along the drive leading past the lake. “It is not often I ride in that direction, but the past couple of times that I’ve come looking for you, that seems to be a favorite haunt. You’re doing well with that sprightly fellow.”
Jamey thought of bringing up Melbury Hall and Israel, but he felt awkward saying anything. The longer he refrained from speaking to the earl, the more difficult it was becoming to start.
“Train yourself to manage your pony with a light hand,” Stanmore said a little later. “Firm when you want him to respond…brook no nonsense…but handle him with a light hand otherwise. That’s it. You have a natural touch, James.”
Jamey smiled shyly, feeling his face grow hot. Luckily, the earl was not looking at him, though, and in a moment the trail wound into the trees.
“It is fascinating to me that you found that cottage so soon after arriving at Solgrave. That ruined hut was my hiding place when I was your age, as well.”
He needed to hide, too? The boy shot him a sidelong glance. Lord Stanmore did look different today. His feelings were showing so plainly on his face. And Jamey had never heard him so talkative.
“We used to play ‘storm the keep’ out at the cottage. There were generally six of us from Solgrave—the two sons of the woodcutter and Mrs. Trent’s three boys and I—against a half dozen farm lads, and sometimes more, from Melbury Hall.”
“Were the lads from Melbury Hall slaves back then, too?” Jamey didn’t realize that he’d asked the question aloud until Stanmore’s surprised gaze snapped around. The earl turned his attention back to the trail, but Jamey shift his weight uncomfortably on the back of the pony. These were the first words he’d ever spoken to his lordship.
“No slaves back then,” he answered. “Melbury Hall was owned by someone else when I was a lad, and they did not keep Africans as slaves.”
Jamey studied the hardness that had crept into the earl’s face as he stared ahead into the woods.
“I noticed that someone has been doing some work on the cottage.”
The boy decided to not make a comment. He didn’t want someone else getting angry at Israel for touching something that wasn’t his.
“I am glad of it,” Stanmore continued, as if reading his thoughts. “If you know who the person is that is doing the work—or if you happen to meet with him or them—pass on my thanks, will you?”
“Aye.” James replied, relieved.
As they rode on in silence for a while, Jamey tried to think of the best way to bring up the subject of slaves again. He’d promised Israel not to say anything about the beatings, but there were other questions that he had. Questions about how it was that Squire Wentworth got away with being so cruel? And was there any place these workers could escape to, so they would become free.
As they broke out of the woods into the edge of the meadow, Jamey could see the top of the cottage in the distance. Perhaps, he decided, he could ask his questions once they arrived there. He could show the earl all the work that Israel had done on the place and then try to get some answers.
“Seeing how well you are handling this pony on your own, I believe Mrs. Ford will have no problem with you riding over here whenever…”
The sharp cry sliced through the morning air, cutting into Jamey’s heart.
“Israel!” he whispered in panic, digging his heels to the sides of the animal and racing toward the cottage as another cry rang out.
“Israel!” Jamey shouted. Stanmore’s horse thundered past him toward the old building.
By the time Jamey had arrived at the cottage, Stanmore had dismounted from his horse and checked the cottage.
“There is no one inside,” he said, striding back to Jamey. His fierce gaze studied the dense trees. They both heard the third cry, and Stanmore was immediately running toward the trees.
Jamey slid off the back of the pony and looped the reins around a low branch. Racing down a path after the earl, he stopped short at the sight of Stanmore driving a powerful fist into the face of a giant of a man.
The boy immediately reached and picked up a large stick lying on the ground as he saw the giant push the earl back roughly and throw himself at him. Stanmore moved quickly to the side, shoving the man hard into a large tree. On him instantly, the earl pounded the giant’s face into the ground.
Jamey had seen many fights along Philadelphia’s waterfront, and had been in a few himself. Once, he had even seen a knife fight broken up outside The Admiral’s Head by the wharf. In his experience, though, fights were usually just some pushing, perhaps a few punches were thrown, ending with tough talk.
For the first time in his life, though, he hoped he would see Stanmore beat this brute to a bloody pulp.
He raised the heavy stick, ready to join in if Stanmore needed him. Then he caught sight of Israel.
His friend lay curled up in the dirt, his shirt and back turned into raw streaks of flesh and blood. Jamey cried out loud, running to him and crouching down. He bit back tears as he looked into freshly battered face. Israel’s eyes were closed, and he did not seem to be breathing.
“No!” His own shout was piercing, his fury spewing out, his spirit demanding revenge. He picked up the stick that he’d just dropped to the ground and turned to see Stanmore fling the giant to his knees.
“You killed him! You killed him!”
The tears were blurring his vision, but he felt the stick connect solidly with the man’s shoulder. As he lifted the stick to strike again, he felt the earl’s strong arms grab him around the waist and lift him off the ground. Seizing the moment, the giant staggered to his feet and ran unsteadily off into the woods.
“Let me go!” Jamey struggled against the steely grip for a moment, a
nd then felt the stick pulled out of his hand. “He killed him. He killed Israel.”
The tears were running down his face, but he didn’t care. The anger and sadness were churning so tightly in his chest that he had to gasp for breaths.
“He won’t get away with this.” Stanmore’s voice was determined and yet calm. “You and I will see to it.”
His strong arms held Jamey against his chest, soothing him. It seemed ages before Jamey thought that he could take a breath.
“Stay here and let me look at the lad!” Stanmore ordered grimly as he stood Jamey on his feet. The earl frowned over in the direction of the small body.
Jamey shook his head, and angrily wiped at the tears on his face. “Nay, Israel is my friend!”
Stanmore was looking at him, his eyes grave. He had a cut on the side of his chin that was still bleeding a little. As the earl placed a hand on his shoulder, Jamey saw his knuckles were scraped and beginning to swell. Together, they both walked toward the body, and Jamey crouched beside him as the earl gently pressed a finger against the side of Israel’s neck.
“He is still alive,” he murmured, looking carefully at Israel’s face and back. “I think this blow to his head rendered him unconscious. We need to get a doctor for him. I cannot tell for certain, but he might have a few broken bones, as well.”
“Please…!” Jamey pleaded. “We cannot take him back to Melbury Hall! They shan’t take care of him there. Please, m’lord, this is not the first time Israel has been beaten. Last week, he was bruised, too…”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His hard glare immediately brought more tears to the boy’s eyes. “I…I should have. I am so sorry I didn’t. But Israel made me promise to say nothing. He thought telling would make it worse for everyone else. I saw another two men who had been whipped and put in the stocks at the Grove, but I said nothing about that either.”
“You have been to Melbury Hall?”
The Promise Page 29
