The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  She laughed, breathless. “Of course.” And then his fingers pushed deeper and she stopped laughing, and groaned. “Will it – hurt?” she whispered.

  His kisses travelled, rising up from her groin across the flat smooth belly to her ribs, between her breasts, her neck, and to her mouth. He kissed her hard, then smiled again. “Do you taste yourself?”

  “I wouldn’t know what that taste was like.”

  “The most beautiful wine in the world.” He pulled her round, kissed her eyes, and commanded, “Look at me, little one.” Her eyes flicked open, wide and adoring. His own eyes were just a lash breadth away. “Nothing will hurt,” he told her softly. “Nothing will ever hurt you again if I can help it. You are ready for me, as I am for you, and it’s not pain but pleasure I can promise you.”

  She whispered back, “I don’t know what being ready means.”

  “Then let me show you,” he murmured, and she felt the long weight of his leg flung across her body, and sighed with delight.

  It was a very long time before it was over, and she lay quivering in his arms. He had withdrawn from her but still lay close, caressing her and kissing her cheek. “My beautiful girl,” he said, “sleep now, if you wish. I shall carry you to your bed.”

  The peaks of sensation had not yet left her body but the swirling confusion of pleasure remained within. “Galloping horses,” she muttered without explanation. “They’ll never let me sleep.” She trembled, aware of endless streams of heat singing through her body. “I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered, still clutching his back. The faint streaks of dark hair across his chest were a silken sheet between them.

  “Which is just as well,” he answered her, “since I have no intention of leaving you alone.” He bent, then straightened, and lifted her. She snuggled naked in his arms as he carried her to the bed, then brought back the pillows and coverlets, and cocooned her there. Then he walked to the hearth and threw on the rest of the faggots heaped in the grate, and returning to the bed, climbed in beside her and once again took her in his embrace. “Sleep, little one. Be calm and let the furnace evaporate. Sleep beside me, and I shall sleep too.”

  Her voice was muffled against his shoulder. “Isn’t it still daytime?”

  “We, my love, are free to do as we wish,” he told her. “If we sleep in the day and take our adventures in the night, there is no one to object. Later, when we wake, I’ll order a late dinner, and play with your father’s treasure chest. But for now, be calm as we sleep and share our dreams.”

  “They’ll be sweet dreams, beloved.”

  “Golden dreams, my love. I promise it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  She woke to the rich scent of chicken broth, hot baked bread, and the blazing perfume of wood smoke from the busy fire across the hearth.

  Richard was sitting on the side of the bed, watching her. “Slept well, my little one?”

  His voice was half lost behind the crackle of the fire. Jemima struggled to sit up, pulling the cover to her chin and the pillows bulked behind. “Is it day? Is it night? I’ve slept too long,” she said in a rush.

  Richard shook his head. “There is no too long, nor too short, nor anyone to criticise, my love. Indeed, it is supper time, and I have our supper here for the taking. Are you hungry?” She was starving, and nodded. He laughed. “They say that hunger after love-making is a sign of strength and satisfaction. Here. Forget modesty, leave the covers around your waist, and I’ll bring you a bowl of soup.”

  “You brought up food and drink yourself? And you even built up the fire? I just hope,” she stared timidly down into her blanketed lap, “you didn’t have a page come in to see me – naked?”

  “Is that likely? No, my love, I’ve no intention of sharing you.” He brought her the bowl, a spoon, a cup of wine which he placed on the stool beside the bed, and came to sit beside her. Then he leaned forwards and kissed the tip of her nose. “I dare not kiss any other part of you, or I may well be tempted to do more than kiss,” he told her, grinning. “I believe your breasts are blushing, though perhaps it’s only the reflection from the fire. Now, eat up. And I shall stare at you and make you thoroughly uncomfortable.”

  “I am a little uncomfortable,” she admitted. “Is that – normal too?”

  “Sore? Yes, my love, normal I’m afraid. After the first time, and perhaps at other times. I must apologise, but it is unavoidable.” He gazed at her a moment, then added, “I did not, I hope, hurt you at the time?”

  “Oh, gracious,” she blushed furiously, “no. I don’t think I’d have noticed anyway. It was so exciting.” Her fingers were grasping the soup bowl, but shook a little and the soup spilled over the eiderdown. She looked up, and mumbled, “You see, I didn’t know that women could like it so much. I thought it was all for men. I thought women just liked making their men happy.”

  The pause lengthened, and then Richard leaned forwards once again, taking the bowl and spoon from her fumbling fingers, and set them aside. Then he took her into his embrace, smoothing her head against his shoulder. His fingers roamed her hair, soothing her, but it was at that moment when she realised he was laughing. Almost silently but entirely convulsed, he laughed, half doubled over, and she felt his body throb with vibrant humour.

  Jemima pulled away just a little and gazed at him. She had never ever seen him laugh so helplessly, When she had first known him, he had never even smiled. Then his smiles had grown small but common, then widened into frequent delight. But never had he laughed like this.

  With faint surprise and a slightly cross puzzlement, Jemima demanded, “So what is so funny? So absurd? What is so ridiculous about me?”

  He once again pulled her tight, then spoke to her hair against his cheek. “Oh my beloved,” he said, still laughing, “the church accuses all women of being seductresses, because they wish to blame their own desires on someone else. And so we are taught that women are wicked hunters, ready to devour men for their own sinful lust. A nonsense of course. But you lived your whole life amongst those women now living in my Holborn home, who, for all their faults, have enjoyed the innocent pastime of shared pleasure without hiding their choices. And you, my little innocent, did not realise that love-making is a joy beyond joy – especially when accompanied by love.” He lifted up her chin, looking into her eyes. “But have you learned now, my little one, that there is no wicked vice in love, nor is it only the man who pleasures himself at the cost of the woman?”

  She had lost her tongue. Eventually she managed, broken on a hiccup, “It was – wonderful. You were – wonderful.”

  He smoothed her cheek back to his velvet shoulder. He wore his bedrobe, fur lines and lush, a robe she had always admired, and how she had first come truly to know him. She sighed, and he whispered, “It will get better, my own love. I can promise you that. It will be less sore and more enjoyable as time passes.”

  “So you won’t leave me too soon?”

  “I have no intention of leaving you at all,” he told her with a severe glance. “Do you think me so irresponsible? I have a plan. But I will not tell you yet. First you are to eat and drink. And then I am going to explore you father’s treasure chest.”

  Richard stood by the fire, his back to the flames, regarding the little locked chest on the ground. He waited there until Jemima had finished both soup and bread, then took away the platters and delivered her own bedrobe, wrapping it around her shoulders as she climbed timidly from the bedcovers. He took her hand and led her to sit on the floor with the wooden box between them.

  Fingering first the corners and then the lid, Richard examined it in considerable detail, slowly and with care, touching each part. The hinges were rusted, and the wood remained glossy with damp, but the weed and algae had been wiped away and the encircling metal straps and double locks were clear in the firelight.

  It was then quite suddenly that Richard pressed against the higher lock with his thumb while pushing down on the lower lock with the fingers of his other hand. Je
mima heard the click, although nothing appeared to have happened. Then, twisting both hands, Richard brought the locks together. The hinges seemed to entwine. With another twist, they snapped apart and Richard opened the lid with a smile.

  “You are a practised criminal? You know how to unlock the impossible?” Jemima was staring at Richard.

  “Don’t look at me, my love,” he told her. “Look here and see what treasure you are about to inherit from your estimable Papa.”

  Jemima blinked, and looked down. The open box blazed golden in the firelight. She could not at first see anything except for the dazzle and the unbelievable gleam. Then she whispered, “It is amazing. Did you expect this?”

  “Not entirely.” Richard smiled at her astonishment. “The chest was not empty, since it was too heavy. It contained more than water, since the water had drained for several hours. Your father considered it sufficiently important to risk his daughter’s life in its return. But I have no special knowledge of what may now be stolen from the Spanish.”

  “How do we know it’s Spanish?” She shook her head, loose and tousled curls in her eyes as she reached out one tentative finger. “And how do we know it’s real?”

  “There are many tales of gold coming from the Americas,” Richard told her, taking a handful of the rich and heavy coins, and placing them in her upturned palm. “The Spanish melt it down and fashion their own money from it. I know the feel of true gold and this is real, without doubt, taken by piracy on the high seas. And now it belongs to yourself and your father.”

  “Even if it’s stolen?”

  ‘There are hundreds of golden coins here. It is worth ten king’s thrones, or a dozen queen’s crowns. And there is no one with either the will or the capability to return it to its rightful owners in the Americas. Feel it, and learn your own new worth.”

  The clink of gold and the weight in her hand made Jemima dizzy. Quite suddenly she understood greed and ambition, cruelty for gain and the bitter feuds caused by envy and avarice, all the things she had seen in others and never before understood. She let the coins fall back between her fingers, and leaned away. “And this is why Babbington tried to kill my father’s people. For gold.”

  “I doubt Babbington knew the extent of the treasure,” Richard smiled, “or he might have tried even harder. And Lord Staines, who may guess a little closer to the truth, may not have finished with us yet.”

  “That’s why Papa is hiding.”

  “In the attic.” Richard stopped and turned, gazing with sudden interest at the open box and its contents. “The attic,” he remembered with a slight frown. “What strange shadows, and how absurd to forget such imperatives. Life has grown so extraordinary, that adventure surrounds me. I had failed to think further on the very thing that first brought us together.”

  “Battles and escapes.” Jemima nodded. “It’s all adventure. You can’t call life tedious anymore, my love. It is utterly bewildering.”

  “No.” Richard leaned forwards and shut the lid with a snap. Two clicks echoed, and the locks slid home. Without effort, the little chest was locked once more. “Tedium is no longer the problem,” Richard said. “But this treasure is more dangerous than glorious. I expect Staines to renew his efforts once he discovers his pervious two men are both dead. That will be suspicion enough. He may start by searching the Strand House. But sooner or later he will come here, or send men who can do a more ruthless job than himself.” He stood, reached down and took Jemima’s hand. “The chest must be hidden. And so, my love, must you.”

  “Not home?” It was not home she wanted.

  “I’d planned to lease a house, or take you to my own country property, although that’s at some distance. But this is more dangerous than I’d realised. I believe we should move quickly.”

  They stood together, staring down, the fire spitting its heat behind them, the box leaking the last of its water ooze onto the floorboards before them. Jemima whispered, “The message has gone to my father. He’ll come himself, or send help, won’t he?”

  “That,” replied Richard, “is of no consequence. You, Thomas and I, my sweet, are about to go on a journey. Your father will not find us and he may think what he will. Eventually, when I’m sure it’s safe, I’ll escort you back to him, treasure intact.”

  She laughed suddenly. “We could help ourselves. Papa can’t possibly remember exactly how many coins there are.”

  Richard also laughed, but shook his head. “I am lucky, little one, to have sufficient myself to leave greed unnecessary. I’ll touch none of it. It’s locked tight again and will be hard for anyone except the most experienced to open. What concerns me now is not riches, but your safety.”

  She felt deliciously safe as long as Richard stood beside her. She told him so. “No one really knows where we are.”

  He paused. The pause seemed to hang in the air like the drifting perfume of the wood smoke. Then he said, quite abruptly, “We may be away for some weeks. And may have to move, if we are discovered. My own country estate is in Wiltshire and that’s a long ride. We will have Tom as a chaperone, but he’s not the one I’d choose under the circumstances. And you have been away already for a great stretch. Those who know you will have many suspicions. And one of those suspicions is quite true.”

  “Wonderfully true.” She chuckled. “That’s the best part. And I don’t need a chaperone and I don’t care what people think. And,” she smiled up at him. The fire at his back haloed him in crimson, but his face was deep in shadow. She sighed. “You don’t care what people think either, do you, my love? That’s what you’ve always told me.”

  There was no further pause. “I care what I think myself, little one,” he told her softly. “And I have just one question. Will you marry me, my own love?”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Without trumpet or drum, without wagonloads of luggage or sumpters dragging litters, Richard and his two friends travelled beyond Kent towards Wiltshire and the farmlands and stretching gardens of Wolfdon Hall. It was not a cavalcade but simply a small party that set out from the vicinity of Dover, travelling directly north west. They had hired four well-armed guards and a guide, all men that Richard had already known and paid previously to accompany him in the battle against Babbington. It was a frosty morning but the approaching spring was a promise in the air, with blue sky glimpsed through the cloud.

  Two guards and the guide rode ahead. Then Richard and Thomas rode, Jemima riding between them. Behind the other two guards rode, chattering, low voiced, and enjoying the likelihood of good pay for an easy job.

  There was, however, no sign of money. The wooden chest was no longer visible, nor was it so heavy. Wrapped within Richard’s travel bags, it weighed no more than a full purse and a good dagger. The rest of the gold had been divided, and was carried in secret. Below Jemima’s skirts and attached to the tight waist of her chemise, a purse was strapped. Slightly uncomfortable, but with a reassuring bulge and little weight. Both Richard and Thomas carried more. The remainder nestled in the folds of Thomas’s new packed doublet, a gorgeous velvet affair, courtesy of Richard, and in two pairs of boots belonging to them both, well packed, secured and well hidden.

  The crows were squabbling in the high bare birches and the wet grass smelled of new growth. Bulging clouds sped pale and high with no threat of rain, and across the western horizon beyond the birch woods, the hills were misted in a pastel haze. It was a clear day and a good day for travel.

  They had stayed only a week at the hostelry, only days sufficient for buying, hiring and packing. “Now for Wiltshire and the Wolfdon estate,” Richard informed Thomas, Jemima’s hand firmly clasped in his. “As you know, I’d already planned to escape court and courtesy by staying sometime in Kent. But now the necessity to stay at a distance is more imperative still. I expect trouble from Staines, and I’ll not take my fiancé back immediately to the Strand where the danger will likely be more threatening both in her father’s company and on the road north.”

  “Fianc
é?” Thomas had asked, ignoring everything else.

  “Naturally,” Richard replied. “Once settled on my own property, I shall arrange the wedding. Since there will be no relatives to spoil the broth, it will take place in my private chapel and witnessed by my one reliable friend.”

  Who’s that?” asked Thomas, half guessing.

  Richard sighed. “It will take some time before Staines hears his men have been killed, but once he knows, it will certainly arouse suspicion. I believe we have a sennight or less in safety before he sends men to find us. But even then, he cannot know exactly who we are. Without knowing my involvement, I can assume my estate will be safe enough. We’ll stay there until the situation clears. But I’ll send private messages to my solicitor and to Captain Thripp.”

  “Is it,” Jemima asked, “a nice house? Like your hall at Holborn?”

  Thomas laughed. “Twenty bed chambers, a hall grand enough to entertain the king, and privies sufficient to drown Wiltshire. A hundred chimneys, a hundred windows, and gardens to shame Hampton Court. Indeed, if Dickon’s not careful, his majesty may come to steal this place too. A little out of fashion with its archways, dark as some ancient castle, but as beautiful as you can imagine. I’ve only ever been there once but it’s a house you don’t forget easily.”

  “I’ve not been there myself in some years,” Richard said. “As we get closer, I’ll send a messenger ahead to warn the servants to clean and prepare, fill the cellars with wine and roast half a dozen piglets.”

  “Admittedly I’m hungry already.”

  “We’ve a long cold road to travel first, and at the rate we’re likely to manage, it will take some days. I suggest travelling in comfort but I won’t extend the journey beyond the risk of safety.”

  It had taken longer even than Richard had expected. They stopped at wayside inns and laughed over their wine cups late into the evening, rising late the following morning and idling over breakfast.