His leather-clad hands flexed around the reins. “She had you up in that loft, and I couldn’t save you. You can’t imagine how helpless I felt.”
The sun peeked through the grey clouds, revealing twin stone cairns flanking a grassy, unkempt carriage trail. “Here’s the start of Wyndam’s estate. Race you there?” It was obvious he wanted to leave France behind. Without answering, she dug her heels into Sparrow’s side and leapt ahead of him.
“You minx!”
She leaned over and pushed her mount harder, taking full advantage of her head start. With the stables in sight, she slowed to a walk. He pulled up beside her, their horses chuffing and lathered. She tried to smile at him. He’d trusted her with something precious—his memories. The last thing he wanted was her pity, yet she was having a difficult time keeping from blurting out her love.
“I won,” she said in a singsong voice that cracked just a little.
“You’re a cheater and lucky Aries was otherwise occupied.” The twitching corners of his mouth and the twinkle in his eyes seemed genuine. She shook off her melancholy and smiled tremulously back.
After dismounting, they handed their mounts off to a young groom. New wood abutted greying planks, giving the stables the air of a patchwork quilt. The main house was similar in size to Wintermarsh but centuries older. The remnants of a moat circled the castle-like manor, and a small wooden bridge spanned the empty trough to the front door. Four turrets sat on each corner with narrow window slits. The structure was a mixture of grey and brown stone—rough, jagged enormous blocks. Although charming, it shared a sense of dilapidation with the stables.
“It’s like stepping back in time.” She walked close enough to brush the back of his hand with a finger.
Out of the door emerged a tall man with sandy blond hair and a lean whipcord body in accord with the wolfhound trotting by his side. A pair of worn, faded buckskins encased his long legs and a patched brown jacket topped a plain white shirt. If he hadn’t looked vaguely familiar, she might have mistaken him for a groom.
“Drummond. Splendid timing. I was headed to the paddock. Aries is quite the stallion.” The man’s Irish brogue identified him as lord of the manor.
“Marcus Ashemore, Lord Wyndam, may I present Lady Minerva.” Rafe gestured toward Minerva.
“It’s my pleasure to welcome you to our humble, crumbling abode. I’m not sure I had the honor of being introduced in London. You were always surrounded by a multitude of admirers. No one lesser than an earl could get through the throng.” Lord Wyndam bussed the back of her hand.
She demurred with a laugh. “I’m not sure about that, but it’s certainly a pleasure to meet you now.”
“I saw gentlemen standing three deep trying to get their names on your card.” Lord Wyndam still held her hand.
Rafe took Wyndam’s wrist between his thumb and forefinger and shook her hand free. “We get the picture, Wyndam. The horses?”
Lord Wyndam didn’t seem the least bothered by Rafe’s brusque manner. Ignoring Rafe, he said, “Do you know my wife, Delilah, Lady Minerva?”
“I didn’t have the pleasure of making her acquaintance either.”
“Yes, all those gentlemen kept you busy, I’m sure. The endless waltzes, the strolls through gardens, the carriage rides.” Wyndam cut his gaze to Rafe, lips twitching. “Perhaps you’d like to take tea with my wife while I take Drummond down to the paddock? I’m sure we would bore you. Let yourself in. We’re informal, and our butler is rather hard of hearing.”
“Sounds lovely,” she said.
She shuffled toward the door. How in the world was she to explain her months at Wintermarsh? Was Lady Wyndam a gossip? There was only one thing she could do…lie her drawers off.
Minerva knocked on the rough wooden door, but no one answered. She pushed the door open and stepped directly into a large common area. No one was in sight.
“Hello?” Her soft call echoed off the stone.
Faded tapestries decorated the walls, and two suits of armor flanked the huge fireplace at the far end of the room. Swords, lances and axes hung all over the wall on either side of the armor. The weapons glinted in the slivers of sunlight from the narrow windows. She imagined a medieval knight grabbing a sword straight off the wall to go fend off his enemy.
“Quite the arsenal, isn’t it?”
A gasping scream snaked out of Minerva’s tight throat as she spun. Her would-be attacker was a woman with thick, straight chestnut hair pulled into a messy chignon and an open, honest face with a dash of freckles across her nose. She was short and slight. Perhaps not beautiful in the classical sense, she was winsome with an indefinable charm.
“Quite impressive,” Minerva managed between deep breaths.
“I’m terribly sorry. Did I startle you? I saw Marcus and Lord Drummond head to the stables. Lord Drummond said he might bring you with him when he was here last.”
“Did he now?” Minerva cocked her head.
“I’m so happy to meet you finally. I’m Delilah Ashemore.” Lady Wyndam bobbed an unnecessary curtsy and stuck a hand out. A vigorous shaking commenced. Minerva tried but failed to stop a smile. Lady Wyndam let go and ran her hand down her skirt, a barely contained nervous energy ready to burst from her tapping toes.
Minerva walked farther into the room. “What a lovely tapestry.”
Lady Wyndam outpaced Minerva and ran her fingers along the frayed edge. Her voice bounced with exuberance. “Wyndam’s uncle says it’s from the fifteenth century. Can you imagine? The first time Marcus brought me here, I thought I was in a fairytale. The rat I saw running across my bed sheets changed my opinions rather hastily.”
“Oh my,” Minerva whispered.
Lady Wyndam cut her laugh off and took a deep, sighing breath. “Perhaps you’d like to repair to our drawing room and take a cup of tea?”
“That sounds lovely.”
One step into the drawing room, and Minerva stopped short. Greek, Roman, Egyptian and Chinese antiquities warred with each other for space. Every nook and cranny was crammed.
“What a charming room,” Minerva said rather in awe.
“Charming? That’s your polite way of saying odd, isn’t it? I rather hate it myself. I was going to move most of it above stairs, but Marcus says given time I’ll eventually break it all anyway. Unfortunately, it’s all plaster and imitations as far as we’ve been able to determine.” Lady Wyndam wound her way around a huge bust of Caesar sporting a straw bonnet and gestured to a settee patterned in violently red poppies.
Minerva lowered herself, feeling a bit like the poppies might eat her alive. Lady Wyndam plopped across from her in an ancient green velvet armchair. Dust motes poofed up, and Lady Wyndam waved her hand in front of her face, rolling her eyes.
“Good grief. This room is in a terrible state. If I’m being perfectly honest, the entire estate is in terrible shape. Wyndam inherited it a few months ago, you see, and we don’t have two farthings to rub together.” Lady Wyndam shrugged, slouched back in the chair, and grinned.
Minerva blinked a few times before returning Lady Wyndam’s grin. “I’m sorry you’re in financial straits.”
Lady Wyndam dismissed her with a wave of a hand. “Not to worry. Wyndam grew up in Ireland on a horse farm, and we’re breeding horses to sell. We’re ever so grateful Lord Drummond is letting us stud Aries. He’s a magnificent horse. Wyndam thinks the progeny from Aries and our little mare Starlight will go for top dollar, and then we can update a bit. Although, honestly, I could live in a hovel with Wyndam and be perfectly content.”
“That’s a beautiful sentiment, Lady Wyndam.”
“It’s closer to reality than you know. You haven’t seen the upstairs.” Laughing, she pointed to the flaking plaster of the ceiling. “Please call me Delilah. I’m not particularly fond of it. I mean, Delilah was a harlot, was she not? But I can’t get used to b
eing called Lady anything.”
Minerva laughed. Goodness, she liked Delilah Ashemore. Very much. “And you must call me Minerva.”
“Let me ring for some tea. You must be parched after your ride.” Delilah weaved back to the door and rang the bell pull. After several tries with no answer, she popped her head out the door. “O’Connell, O’Connell.”
A creaky Irish brogue sounded on the other side of the door. “Eh? Tea? Well, o’course I heard the bell, ain’t deaf, am I? Eh? I’ll bring a cuppa, all you had to do was ask, lassie. What? Two cups? And some biscuits? I’ll see what that old bat in the kitchen can scrounge up. Back in a jiff.”
Delilah backed in to the room, shaking her head. Her heel caught on the worn, faded Abussan rug, and she bumped a pedestal holding a replica of the sphinx. The sphinx tottered and slipped through Delilah’s fingers to break into pieces on the floor.
“Blast it! There goes another one. Wyndam’s right. I might have this place cleared out by Christmastime.” She kicked at the pieces with her slippers, her shoulders slumping.
Minerva knelt down and fit together two large shards. “Perhaps we could fix it.”
“Not worth the trouble. We must seem like terribly bad ton to someone like you. I’ll never be comfortable entertaining highborn ladies. Marcus says he doesn’t care, but I feel like I’ve let him down.” Delilah’s sadness enveloped the room like a black cloud.
Minerva patted her hand. “Most of Society isn’t worth the trouble, if you want my opinion. Anyway, Lord Drummond thinks highly of you and your husband.”
Delilah raised both brows. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but Lord Drummond isn’t exactly Society’s ideal of a proper gentleman.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” Minerva said with humor-laced sarcasm.
Delilah’s laughter sent the bleak moment scurrying away.
An older man with dark red hair kicked the drawing room door open with a mud-caked boot and shuffled forward with a rattling tea tray. Large fuzzy red caterpillars shadowed the man’s eyes. On closer inspection, Minerva determined they were, in actuality, eyebrows. Similar red hair wisped from out of the man’s ears. Delilah transferred the man’s burden to a table.
Instead of leaving the room, the man came closer and examined Minerva. “Eh? So I saw Drummond down in the paddock. Is this his woman then?” He thumbed toward Minerva.
Torn between embarrassment and laughter, she covered her mouth.
Delilah took the man’s arm and led him to the door. “O’Connell. Really. If you want to be the butler, you must learn some decorum.”
“Decorating? What has window coverings to do with anything?”
She pushed the man out and closed the doors, blowing a tendril of hair out of her eyes with a puff of air. “Terribly sorry about that. Wyndam grew up with O’Connell. He’s getting rather old to work in the stables, but he can’t sit idle and we hoped…well, we’ll work him in somewhere, I’m sure.”
“It’s kind of you to take him in. Lord Drummond seems very fond of his servants as well.”
Regaining their seats, Delilah poured and glanced up through her lashes. “Speaking of…Wyndam and I have been ever so curious, what is going on between you and Lord Drummond?”
A sip of tea lodged in her throat, and she coughed. Used to the sly machinations of ton gossips, Delilah Ashemore’s direct question took her aback. However, far from being offended, she appreciated the woman’s frankness.
“I’m not exactly sure. We used to detest each other. But lately, I’ve found that I rather admire him and,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “he’s very handsome, don’t you think?”
Delilah clapped her hands. “How exciting. I’m not supposed to notice other men, being a married woman and all, but if I did happen to notice another man, I would agree. He’s had a rough time of it lately, but he was downright happy when he left Aries yesterday and quite insistent he make it home before nightfall.”
“Was he?” The hope imbued in the two words was telling.
“Most definitely. Have you discussed marriage? I’ll admit, selfishly, I would love to have you as a neighbor.”
Minerva slumped back and plucked at a raveling red poppy. “No. We haven’t discussed anything of permanence.”
“He holds strong feelings for you. I can tell.” Delilah winked and would have said more, but the sound of clattering boots and rumbling laughter came from the entry.
The drawing room doors swung open. With Delilah’s encouraging words in her head, Minerva studied Rafe. His lips curled up, crinkling his eyes into a genuine smile. He did look happy. Her cheeks hurt from the force of the smile she sent him.
“Well, m’dear, looks like another horrid knickknack has been executed.” Wyndam kicked the broken sphinx under a chair.
Delilah rose and wrapped her hands around her husband’s arm. “I’m working on clearing out the room, love. You gentlemen look rather ridiculous in here. Why don’t we move to the dining room? Cook should have finished laying out our luncheon. We dine simply here, I hope that’s acceptable.”
“I’ve found that simple suits me quite well.”
Rafe offered his arm with a small bow. She lay her hand on his forearm, acutely aware of his heat and hardness. The Wyndams led them down a narrow corridor off the common room. A cold repast was laid out on the buffet in a small morning room. Lord Wyndam popped the cork off a bottle of champagne and poured everyone a glass.
“A toast to Lord Drummond for generously giving our little venture a start,” Lord Wyndam said.
“Here, here!” Delilah held her glass high, sloshing the drink over the side.
“Aries did all the work, Wyndam, and you know I don’t mind in the least. I wish you all the luck.” Rafe dipped his head and took a small sip.
The food was delicious, and the company entertaining. Lord Wyndam’s dry humor complemented Delilah’s exuberant cheerfulness to perfection. Minerva found herself sharing personal details about her childhood and ruefully confessed the problems she’d faced with Simon and his resulting turnaround over the autumn.
Rafe didn’t contribute a great deal. He chuckled when appropriate and interjected a few times, but otherwise his face stayed strangely blank. Even when Minerva coaxed a smile, it wasn’t genuine. A hollow pit yawned in her stomach, and she pushed her plate away, her appetite gone.
By late afternoon, only a few remaining grey clouds marred the blue skies. The groom held their horses, and Aries was saddled for the return trip to Wintermarsh. They stood at the edge of the old drawbridge, and Delilah looked first at her and then at Rafe. “Should we expect an announcement to be forthcoming?”
Rafe and Minerva stammered on top of each other.
“Well, I’m not sure—”
“We really haven’t—”
“It’s not as though—”
Casting an exasperated look at his wife, Wyndam saved more excuses. “It’s none of our business, love, and anyway, they’re welcome here apart or together. Perhaps we could meet up for a spot of shooting, Drummond?”
Rafe’s reply didn’t register through the pounding of her heart. Delilah shrugged her shoulders and mouthed, ‘I’m sorry’.
The first miles back to Wintermarsh passed in an uncomfortable silence. Not able to stand it, she peppered him with questions about the land and the cottages they passed on their way home. The idle talk reduced the unexplainable tension between them but didn’t eliminate it. By the time they left the horses with Tom, she worried what the night had in store.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rafe reclined in his huge armchair before a small fire. He clutched his brandy glass so tightly he wondered it didn’t shatter. The scratch of a quill broke the silence. Minerva was at his desk writing to Drake.
She had been magnificent today. Charming, lively, warm. She had missed socializing, she’d as much as adm
itted it on the way home. She missed London and the parties. She missed the art galleries and the museums. Life at Wintermarsh must seem mundane and boring to a woman like her. London would be miserable for him. He hated the parties, hated the perpetual soot and filth, hated the stares on the streets and in the clubs.
For both their sakes, he should end their liaison now. But he wasn’t strong enough. She was a tonic as addictive as alcohol. The sharing of his past had somehow lightened the burden that seemed to press him down day in and day out. It made him want to lay himself bare to her, but that path would only lead to more heartache.
As soon as their bargain was over, Minerva would want her old life back. She would leave him more broken than he already was. He could force her away though. He could be the heartless bastard she’d accused him of being months ago.
“What a lovely day. I liked the Wyndams very much. Would you like me to read to you for a change? Perhaps more from The Tempest?” Minerva laid a hand on his shoulder, her sweet smile eviscerating him.
Hating himself, he pressed forward with his plan. The remaining brandy burned a path down his throat, and he set the empty glass aside. “No books. I require physical satisfaction. Are you willing?”
Her hand fluttered off his shoulder to the neck of her gown. She held his gaze, searching. “Perhaps. What did you have in mind?”
“I want you on your knees and between my legs. Take my…cock out and suck it.” The vulgar words burned as he made his own hell.
He turned his face away even as his eyes refused to leave her face. He needed to see the disgust and hatred. A barrage of emotions battled on her face. Finally though, she approached. He turned farther away from her. Her face reflected something even more terrifying than hate.
A dark pit had swallowed Rafe while she had been composing a letter to Drake. No, it had been growing all afternoon. But she was beginning to understand him. Fear shone from his stormy eyes, not pleasure in her humiliation. No, he aimed to push her away. He expected her to be angry and outraged, or perhaps, he expected her to cry and run away. In reality, what she felt was arousal and power.
A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2 Page 24
