Scandal's Bride

by Gibson, Pamela

  We need to talk about what happened last night.

  Gwen was determined when she had an issue to discuss. He could not avoid it. He may as well get back home and get it over with. And then he’d change the subject and try to interest her in other matters.

  They had much to discuss.

  He was eager to purchase a small traveling carriage. Trevelyan expected a good price for wool this year. Perhaps when they got the carriage, they’d make the promised trip to York. Gwen deserved the trip, and she’d said she wanted to visit several landmarks there.

  He wanted to give her something to look forward to. They could have separate rooms on the trip. He’d find an excuse and keep his baser nature under firm control.

  Satisfied with his plan, he stopped in the nursery and found Miranda playing with little James.

  “Jeremy said you’d slipped in last night.” She picked up the baby and placed him on her hip. “Why didn’t you bring Gwen? I miss her.”

  “I miss her, too, which is why I’m off for home.”

  “Already?” She put the baby to her shoulder. “How are things going at home? Did you get the furnishings Jeremy sent?”

  “Aye, and I’m not pleased with him foisting off Father’s old bed.”

  She grinned and patted him with her free hand. “I think he enjoyed ordering the bed to be put in the wagon.”

  “Indeed.”

  A disturbance in the hallway grabbed his attention. A footman ran in with a missive in his hand. “His lordship said to bring this to you straight away.”

  John unfolded the note and gasped.

  Miranda looked at him with concern. “What’s wrong?”

  “Gwen didn’t know where to reach me, so she sent this here.” He held his breath. “There’s been a fire. I’m needed immediately.”

  Chapter 17

  Weary from his previous days on the road and a hard ride from London with only one overnight stop, John went directly to the stable. He handed over the horse to the groom and staggered toward the manor house.

  Sunlight glinting off broken panes of glass drew his eyes to the east wing as if some spirit wanted him to know one of his dreams had been dashed to bits.

  If I’d been here, perhaps the fire wouldn’t have taken control.

  But he hadn’t. He’d left, and Gwen had been the one to deal with it. Stalwart, sensible Gwen, a lady born and bred, a woman he’d taken away from family and friends and brought to this sorry place.

  At least she was safe.

  His gaze roamed the scorched exterior walls, looking for anything that might catch his eye, anything that should not be there, anything that could have fueled the conflagration.

  This afternoon he would scour the interior, but first he needed Gwen.

  He shook his head in dismay and climbed the steps into the house. No one was about. He took off his outerwear and loped up the stairs. “Gwen? Are you here?”

  No answer.

  A snuffling noise in his room drew him. Seeing no one, he paused. A small terrier with a mouse—no, a rat—in its mouth scurried from under the bed and took off down the hall. John scratched his head. Dog? He’d have to ask Gwen.

  Eying the bed, he sat on the edge, and without taking off his boots, he allowed his tired muscles to sink into the feather coverlet. Last time he sat on this bed, it had been harder than a horseshoe. Gwen must have found a way to soften the mattress. In minutes, his eyes were closed, but he didn’t sleep. He allowed himself the luxury of a few moments of utter relaxation—nothing could equal it except for . . .

  Don’t even think about your wife’s luscious, welcoming body.

  He’d missed Gwen during his trip to Bath. He missed her smile and her upbeat attitude and her ability to make the worst task a rollicking adventure. He missed seeing her perfect teeth biting her lower lip, an anxious look in her beautiful blue eyes when she had a problem. He missed the way she clapped her hands when something delighted her.

  Gwen asked thoughtful questions and helped him with research. She was well read and eager to help. The servants loved her, and she loved them back with thoughtful gifts on the day of their birth and helpful potions and tisanes if they were sick.

  But her compassion was also her flaw. She tried to find good in every person. If they went to Longley, she’d try to find it in Mama.

  But we shall not go to Longley unless Jeremy and Miranda are in residence.

  Discovering the cause of the fire was his first priority.

  How could it have happened? Perhaps a maid or footman, careless with a lantern, had gone inside to see the interior. He’d almost unbricked one of the passageways leading between the two wings and was grateful he had not. If anything happened to Gwen, he would never forgive himself.

  A voice in the next room roused him.

  “You are a true mouser, Marmot. The rat didn’t have a chance. But next time, carry it outside before you do the deed. Now I must call a chambermaid to dispose of the dead body and clean up the blood trail.”

  A dog yipped and raced into John’s room.

  Marmot, huh.

  Gwen laughed and ran after him. “Come here, you little devil.” The dog barked and jumped up on the bed.

  Gwen stopped in the doorway. “Goodness. You’re home.”

  Her hair had fallen down her back, and she wore one of her older gowns with ample room for antics.

  John scrambled off the bed and moved toward her, bending to kiss her mouth. She frowned and turned her head. His lips touched her cheek. “I cannot believe I was gone when this happened. Tell me everything.”

  As he drew her in for a hug, she let her arms remain at her sides. Startled, John moved back. Something was wrong. Either he was so tired he’d assumed her usual good cheer, or she was putting a layer of formality back into their relationship.

  Isn’t that what I wanted?

  “I’ll ring for tea and something stronger for you. I’m sure you’re tired after your journey.”

  “Thank you.” Two could be formal. At least until he coaxed her into telling him what was bothering her.

  They went into the sitting room and took their places in their usual chairs. The familiarity of the scene gave him a sense of peace. And yet Gwen’s eyes darted from one object to the next. Clearly her experience still bothered her.

  More guilt stole into him.

  “I am sorry you had to deal with the fire Gwen. I should have been here.”

  She held herself stiffly and raised her chin high enough to look into his eyes. “Yes, you should have.”

  Her tone was solemn, accusing. Did she blame him for the fire? He had helped with the work, too eager for it to be completed to play the country gentleman and sit idly by. The workmen had not been careless.

  The fire could not have started by itself.

  “Tell me what you know.”

  She folded her hands in her lap and gave him an accounting—smelling smoke, rousing the servants on the floors above and below, watching the roof fall. Her voice was calm and modulated, her limbs still. If she’d felt terror, she was leaving that out of her story.

  He wanted to reach out and pull her into his embrace, but her earlier coolness made him quell his impulse. Instead he leaned forward to hear every word, his mind processing her conclusions, his neck tensing with every comment.

  When she finished, he got up and stood by the window, the scene below a blur. Pacing back and forth, he sat down again, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands.

  “It appears the fire was not the result of natural causes. Who would do this, Gwen?”

  “I know not. I’ve thought about it over and over. We haven’t been here long enough to make enemies. We’ve provided employment, we have cottages to let on good land, and we make regular purchases in t
he village.”

  “Perhaps one of our tenants is hiding his dislike.”

  “When you first arrived and announced you’d be collecting rents, there was dismay. But those who were disgruntled did not hide it, and we’ve worked hard to win them over.”

  “What about Caulfield? Last time we saw him, he threatened us. Does he have kin in these parts?”

  She bit her lip and slowly shook her head. “I don’t believe so.”

  “It’s far-fetched, but I cannot think of a soul who could be an enemy. Nobody has threatened to do us harm.” The vision of a green phaeton going at a breakneck speed flashed in his head. No, Livesley had assured him it had been an accident, a younger son learning to drive.

  Tea arrived, and they sat in silence, mulling over their thoughts. “You will want to see the interior,” she said. “I haven’t gone in yet but would like to accompany you.”

  A hint of the old eagerness was back in her expression, but he hesitated. “Is it safe, Gwen? I’ve already put you at peril by not being here when you needed me. I shall not do that again.”

  “Posh. I know how to be careful.”

  He nodded. “All right. Shall we go now?”

  He stood and held out his hand. She regarded it, then put hers in his as she rose. They left the room.

  “Where did the terrier come from?”

  “The stable. We’ve had a rodent problem, and I borrowed him. Now he’s a pet. Loyal, protective, and eager for my attentions.”

  I sense a subtle rebuke, and I deserve it.

  They made their way to the east wing’s original front entrance where a door once guarded the interior. John entered first, noting blackened walls open to the sky. The day was bright enough to see charred timbers on the floor and niches where statues of saints once resided.

  He started when Gwen put her hand on his arm.

  “Do you think it was the ghost?”

  “What ghost?”

  “The one said to inhabit the tower. It is nearby, you know. She could have flitted over, thinking the building’s religious inhabitants had come back and wanting to mete out her revenge.”

  A grin found its way onto his face. “I don’t believe in ghosts and neither do you.”

  “True. But the villagers do. It’s their theory.”

  “What villagers?”

  “People who saw the flames shooting in the air and came to fight the fire before the rain fell, and gawkers who called the next day to shake their heads and express their thoughts.”

  “They said it was a ghost that did this?”

  “Not just any ghost. Our ghost.”

  He walked around the large room. He didn’t know what it had been used for, but niches in the wall suggested a chapel for the monks in residence. Did he dare go up the stairs? The wing’s central wooden staircase was gone, but stairs on the far side of the building were stone. He expected most of the wooden partitions on the upper floors were gone as well. But the charred walls indicated the fire may have started on this lower floor.

  Head bent, he walked the perimeter of the room, noting bits of straw lingering in the corners. He stopped near the stairs. Moving blackened bits of wood with the toe of his boot, he stopped. “Come here, Gwen, and look at this.”

  He leaned over and picked up a small object, turning it over in his hand.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. It appears to be a coin.”

  She took it from his hand, rubbed it on the skirt of her dress, and held it up to the light. “Or it could be a button.”

  She dropped it in his open palm, and he put it in his pocket. He’d get out an old quizzing glass and see if he could make out the design.

  “Oh dear. I think I shall go back outside. The smell is overpowering.”

  “I’ll join you in a moment. I want to see what’s under this pile.”

  Some of the timbers from the roof above the central staircase had fallen into this room. John reached down and moved the heavier pieces away. A broken oil lamp was lodged in a pile of debris that looked like wood mixed with hay.

  John stood with his hands on his hips and stared. The room had not been swept clean after the roof was repaired. He remembered seeing pieces of wood and other debris, but certainly not hay. Only once had he inspected the rooms above. The next two floors had smaller rooms where monks had lived. The only time he visited the attics, discarded furnishings had been tucked away in haphazard clusters.

  Lightning had not set this fire. It began on this lower floor and had swept up the open staircase to the rooms on the floors above.

  Someone had set the blaze.

  He strode back outside where Gwen was waiting and told her what he’d seen. “We have an enemy.”

  And he had no idea who it was.

  Chapter 18

  Gwen cringed at John’s harsh tone, but hadn’t she come to the same conclusion?

  She didn’t believe in ghosts, although the old legend was delicious. If her salon attendees had heard the tale, they would have been atwitter with delight.

  You don’t have a salon here, Gwen, no one but John to share this with.

  She stole glances at her handsome husband as they walked back to the house. He appeared grim and tired. Her fingers itched to rub away the tension in his shoulders. Her lips longed for one of his drugging kisses. Giving in to these restless desires was not an option.

  First, they must have their long-overdue conversation.

  But she’d let him rest first.

  “Do you wish to order a bath?”

  “I do. Then I want to talk to Trevelyan. Perhaps he has some ideas about the source of the fire, ideas that do not include harmful intent.”

  They entered the house, and while John went in search of his valet, Gwen headed for the kitchen. After riding since dawn, why would he want to quiz Trevelyan? Could it not wait until tomorrow?

  Perhaps he plans to make a stop along the way.

  “You’re scowling, milady. Did the shortbread I sent up not agree with you?”

  She shook off her encroaching bad mood. “It was delicious, Mrs. Bertram. Do you have any more? I’m still a bit peckish.”

  “I have something better. A loaf of warm bread fresh from the oven. Freshly churned butter will make it taste all the better.”

  “The bread smells wonderful.”

  Gwen sat at the servants table and nibbled while she thought about what John had found in the east wing—misplaced straw, a broken oil lamp, and a shiny object. She wanted to study the piece of metal in a better light.

  “Your baked goods are wonderful, Mrs. Bertram. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, milady.” She beamed at the compliment.

  Gwen went back upstairs and entered the sitting room. John hummed in the next room. Turning toward the sound, she strode in and stopped. John was in the copper tub, and there were no soap bubbles hiding his body. She averted her eyes.

  “I say there, lady wife. Do you wish to join me?”

  Sudden heat turned her skin a rosy hue. She took a deep breath and moved toward his clothes pile.

  “Where’s Ranaleigh?”

  “Out getting more water. This is absolute heaven after being in the saddle most of the day.”

  Water sloshed as he dropped the soap on the floor and tried to retrieve it.

  “Gwennie, could you get that for me?”

  She took a deep breath, trying to keep her eyes focused on anything other than the gorgeous body half submerged in the tub. But it was difficult not to see his male part stretching before her eyes. Bending down to retrieve the soap, she squeaked when two hands shot out, snared her waist, and yanked her over the edge and into the warm water.

  “John! What are you doing?” Her shrieks would surel
y bring his valet, or any other servant in the vicinity, on the run.

  She’d landed on top of his lap, her back to his chest, her bottom perched on his hardened cock. She braced her hands on the edge of the tub and tried to get up, but the weight of her waterlogged skirt held her back.

  “God, you feel so good. I’ve missed you, Gwennie.” His hands slid up her waist and rubbed her breasts through the thin material of her muslin dress. She was mortified as her nipples pebbled beneath his stroking hands and hot fire sluiced through her body.

  His lips were on the back of her neck, moving toward the pulse point beneath her ear. She moaned and closed her eyes. Had he changed his mind about bedding her, then?

  “I have another French letter. Perhaps we could make use of it.” His whispered words slapped her back to reality. He was still averse to having a child. The conversation she’d decided to have must take place before any more lovemaking.

  “Please release me. Your valet could return at any moment.”

  “Alas, we do not want to flummox Ranaleigh.”

  With John’s reluctant assistance, she rose and stepped out of the tub. Aware of her gown plastered to her body and an ache between her legs, she let the water drip from her hem and puddle on the floor as she bit her lip and forced her expression into a glare.

  Oh God, I want him so badly.

  But she would not give in.

  John looked like a mischievous imp who’d stolen a pot of honey from a horde of bees. “I do beg your pardon, Gwen. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Honestly, John. I sometimes don’t know what to make of you.” She tried for an injured tone, but she was dripping wet, and his eyes were roaming her body.

  He leered. “Indeed.”

  She folded her arms in front of her. “When you’ve concluded your business with Trevelyan, perhaps we can stroll over to the tower. I have a few items I’d like clarified.”