Thunder & Roses

by Mary Jo Putney

  Her hands tightened on the reins, slowing her pony. Since she seemed fated to be constantly embarrassed by Nicholas, she must learn not to let her emotions affect her riding, she thought with disgust. "I couldn't bring myself to put dry clothing over wet undergarments."

  "A good decision for both practical and aesthetic reasons, except that you appear to be on the verge of freezing." He peeled off his coat and tossed it to her. "Though it's against my principles to encourage females to wear more clothing, you'd better put this on."

  She tried to give the coat back. "Then you'll freeze."

  "I've spent too many nights sleeping under the stars to be bothered by the cold."

  Surrendering to the inevitable, she wrapped the coat around her. The folds were warm with Nicholas's body heat and held a faint, masculine scent that she could have identified anywhere. Wearing the coat was like having his arms around her, only safer.

  It would be interesting to see London, but the visit would surely end the odd closeness that was growing between them. In the metropolis he would have his friends, and probably his old mistresses, to fill his time. He would scarcely remember Clare's existence. Her life would be much easier.

  She really should be more grateful for the prospect.

  * * *

  The rest of that day fell into what was becoming a pattern. Clare took a long bath and washed the smell and filth of the pit from her body and hair. Then, even though she was still shaky from her brush with drowning, she conferred with Williams about the house redecoration. Today the servants had concentrated on cleaning and reorganizing the dining room, with splendid results. She and Williams planned what rooms would be worked on in her absence. Then they made lists of wallpapers and fabrics for her to buy in London.

  After another of Mrs. Howell's excellent dinners, Clare and Nicholas retired to the library. There he busied himself with correspondence and calculations, working with a degree of concentration that belied his wastrel reputation.

  Clare welcomed the opportunity to browse through the library, which contained riches beyond her wildest dreams. If she and Nicholas were on friendly terms when the three months were up, perhaps he would let her borrow books occasionally.

  She glanced up and studied his profile as he frowned over a document. As always, he amazed her: stunningly handsome, both aristocrat and Gypsy, as unpredictable as he was intelligent. He and she were as different as chalk and cheese, and it was impossible to imagine a future when they could be friends. More likely, the three months of this ridiculous challenge would end in disaster, and it wouldn't be the Demon Earl who would suffer.

  Telling herself sharply that no one had forced her to come to Aberdare, she returned to her survey of the bookshelves. The collection was well-organized, with sections of literature in half a dozen languages. A few were even in Welsh.

  Other sections were devoted to subjects such as history, geography, and natural philosophy. Clare's father had some times borrowed theological texts; though the old earl had considered it his duty to stay within the Church of England, he had had Dissenter tendencies. Probably that was why he had chosen a Methodist preacher to educate his grandson.

  Set in the middle of the section was a large Bible richly bound in tooled leather and gilt. Guessing that it was the Davies family Bible, Clare pulled the volume from the shelf and laid it on a table. Absently she paged through, reading some of her favorite verses.

  There was a family tree in the front, and she found it moving to see the different hands and inks that had carefully recorded births, deaths, and marriages. Faint smudges that might have been tears blurred one death date. A faded, century-old entry recorded the birth of one Gwilym Llewellyn Davies, then exuberantly added "At last, a son!" at the side. The infant had grown up to become Nicholas's great-grandfather.

  But as she examined the chart, she understood why the old earl had been so concerned about an heir. The family had not been prolific and Nicholas had no near relations, at least not in the male line. If he held to his determination not to remarry, the earldom of Aberdare would probably die with him.

  She turned the page to look at the most recent records. The old earl's two marriages and three sons were written in his own forceful hand. Though all three of the sons had married, there were no entries for children under the names of the two oldest.

  Her mouth tightened when she looked at the notation by Kenrick's name. In contrast to the ink used everywhere else, Kenrick's marriage to "Marta, surname unknown," and the birth of "'Nicholas Kenrick Davies" were recorded in pencil. It was more proof of how reluctantly the old earl had accepted his heir. If only he had shown Nicholas one-tenth the warmth that Owen had extended to Huw, who was not even of his own blood!

  Thinking sadly of the waste, she turned to the next page. Several folded papers slipped out. She glanced at them, then looked more closely and murmured, "How odd."

  She had not meant to disturb Nicholas, but he leaned back in his chair and stretched lazily. "What's odd, Clarissima?"

  "Nothing very important." She went to his desk and laid the documents down under the light of the oil lamp. "Those two papers are notarized copies of the parish registers that recorded your parents' marriage and your birth. Both are worn and stained, as if they were carried too long in a pocket."

  She pointed at the other two. "These documents are also duplicates, though they were copied rather badly. The oddity is that they have no legal value because they haven't been attested by a notary, yet they're folded and stained very much like the originals. I suppose your grandfather had the copies made, but I can't see what use they would be, or how they became so worn."

  Nicholas lifted one of the unnotarized copies. Abruptly the tendons sprang taut on the back of his hand, and the air seemed to crackle, electric and feverish, as if lightning had struck.

  Clare glanced up and saw that he was staring at the document with the same annihilating rage that he had shown when he had slashed the portrait of his wife. She caught her breath, wondering what could have triggered such fury.

  He picked up the other copy and crumpled the two papers viciously in his hand. Then he rose from his chair, stalked across the room, and hurled the documents into the fire. Flames blazed up, then slowly faded back to the dull red of coals.

  Shaken, Clare asked, "What's wrong, Nicholas?"

  He stared into the fire, where the papers were slowly crumbling to ash. "Nothing that need concern you."

  "The reason for your anger may not be my concern, but the anger itself is," she said quietly. "Shouldn't a good mistress encourage you to speak of whatever is troubling you?"

  "Perhaps a mistress should ask, but that doesn't mean I have to answer," he snapped. Perhaps regretting his curtness, he added more moderately, "Your good intentions are duly noted."

  She decided that she preferred Nicholas's maddening whimsy to his imitation of a brick wall. Suppressing a sigh, she replaced the other papers and reshelved the Bible. He ignored her, his face like granite as he prodded the fire with a poker.

  "Tomorrow is Sunday and I'm going to chapel, so I'll retire now. Good night." She said the words for politeness's sake, not expecting acknowledgment, but Nicholas glanced up.

  "A pity that the kissing is over for the day," he said with brittle humor. "Shortsighted of me to use my allotment when we were in the mine."

  His fury had passed, leaving an expression perilously close to desolation. God only knew why the papers had affected him so, but Clare couldn't bear seeing such grief in his face. With a boldness that would have been unthinkable four days before, she crossed the room and placed her hands on his shoulders, saying shyly, "Your kiss is over, but I can kiss you, can't I?"

  His gaze locked with hers, his black eyes haunted. "You can kiss me whenever you want, Clarrissima," he said huskily.

  She felt his muscles tense, but he held still, waiting for her to take the initiative. Raising herself on tiptoe, she touched her lips to his.

  His arms came around her with un
mistakable hunger. "Ah, God, you feel so right."

  Their mouths mated, deep and ardent. The initiative passed from her to him, and what she had intended as a quiet good-night embrace became far more.

  When they had kissed in the mine it had been dark, sparing her the shocking intimacy of looking into his eyes. Embarrassed by his penetrating gaze, she let her lids drift shut, only to find that without the distraction of sight her other senses intensified. A spatter of rain against the window, the wet velvet roughness of his tongue against hers. A tangy scent that was smoke and piney soap and Nicholas; his breath, rough and wanting, or perhaps it was her breath, too The crunch of coals collapsing into the grate; the soft rub of palms against fabric as he stroked her back.

  The sound of an opening door.

  Shocked back to awareness, she ended the kiss and looked past his shoulder. Standing in the doorway was one of the new maids, Tegwen Elias, a young chapel member with high moral standards and an unbridled tongue.

  The two women stared mutely at each other, Tegwen's face showing horrified disbelief.

  The sight jarred Clare into a sickening awareness of her own sinful behavior. What she was doing was wrong, and nothing could mitigate that stark fact.

  The maid's momentary paralysis ended and she whirled away, closing the door behind her.

  All his attention on Clare, Nicholas was unaware of the byplay. "If you've caught your breath," he said, running a seductive hand over her hip, "can I persuade you to another kiss?"

  She stared up at him, torn by the bitter contrast between what she experienced in his arms, and what she had seen in Tegwen's eyes. Unevenly she said, "No. No, I must go."

  He lifted a hand, as if to stop her, but she brushed by and left from the room, scarcely seeing her surroundings.

  If only she had left ten minutes sooner.

  * * *

  The room felt very empty without Clare in it. Nicholas stared into the fire, wondering what it would take to stop her mind from warring with her body. It was the same each time they came together. First, she was shy and a little doubtful. Then, she would begin to respond, opening like a flower at dawn. Finally, with shattering abruptness, she would remember that she was not supposed to enjoy what was so utterly natural.

  He ground his fist into the mantelpiece with frustration.

  Once she overcame her religious priggishness, she would make a superlative mistress: sensual, intelligent, understanding. Her passion for good works might occasionally be tiresome, but that would be a small price to pay for having her in his bed.

  He didn't doubt that once she became his mistress, she would be content to stay with him when the three months were up. Not only would she want to, but it would be effectively impossible for her to return to her life in Penreith. The trick was to get her into his bed in the first place.

  He was getting damned tired of her vanishing like a rabbit down a burrow every time her conscience caught up with her.

  Chapter 12

  Clare slept badly that night. It had been easy to gloss over the gravity of her behavior when she was under Nicholas's spell. A kiss was only a kiss, more naughty than sinful. But seeing herself through Tegwen's eyes had forced her to confront her own behavior. No longer could she deny her weakness, her lustful craving.

  As she lay sleepless, she heard the beckoning sound of Nicholas's harp. More than anything on earth she wanted to follow that siren song, to forget her pain in the warmth of his embrace. But that would be like a moth trying to cure its attraction to the candle by diving into the flame.

  She rose in the morning with heavy eyes and a heavier heart. The thought of going to chapel made her hands shake, but she could not stay away. She had never missed a Sunday service in her life, and doing so today would be an admission of guilt.

  As she donned her sober gray Sunday dress, she wondered if Tegwen would be at the service, and if the girl would tell others what she had seen. Bleakly she realized that the question was not if but when; Tegwen would hardly be able to wait until she could share the scandalous news. The girl loved being the center of attention, and the story of the schoolmistress kissing the Demon Earl would be irresistible. If the news wasn't out yet, it would be very soon.

  While driving to Penreith, Clare overtook the new cook, Mrs. Howell, who was on her way to the chapel. Mrs. Howell accepted a ride cheerfully and spent the rest of the journey thanking Clare for finding her the situation at Aberdare. Apparently she had not yet heard anything that impugned Clare's morals.

  They arrived just as people were taking their seats. Ordinarily Clare would have found comfort in the familiar benches and whitewashed walls, the wooden floor that gleamed with lovingly applied wax. Today, however, she found herself watching to see if any of the other worshippers were regarding her oddly.

  A quick scan of the congregation showed that Tegwen was not present. As Clare slipped into her usual place by Marged, her friend smiled and nodded toward Huw, who sat between Owen and Trevor, the oldest Morris son. Huw's narrow face glowed with happiness and his small body was clad in warm, sturdy garments that had been outgrown by one of his new foster brothers. For the first time in his short life Huw had a real home. When Clare thought of what the boy had endured in the pit and at the hands of his brutal father, her own problems seemed less important.

  The deacon in the pulpit named a hymn and the singing began. Music was an integral part of Methodist worship, and it brought Clare closer to God than prayer ever had. As she raised her voice her tension began to dissolve.

  Her peace lasted only until a late arrival entered and took a seat in the back. Amid the soft rustle of whispers, Clare heard her own name. Feeling ill, she closed her eyes and steeled herself for what was to come.

  Zion Chapel had no permanent preacher, so worship was conducted by members of the congregation and visiting ministers. Today's sermon was being given by a preacher named Marcross from the next valley, but he broke off as the whispers increased in intensity. Voice thunderous, he said, "And what, pray tell, is more important than the word of God?"

  More muttering and a creak of wood as someone stood. Then a harsh female voice rang through the chapel. "There is wickedness among us today. The woman to whom we have entrusted our children is a sinner and a hypocrite. Yet she dares sit with us in the house of the Lord!"

  Clare's mouth tightened as she recognized the speaker as Tegwen's mother. Gwenda Elias had strong opinions about a woman's place, and had never approved of Clare's teaching or of Clare herself. And now Mrs. Elias had a weapon to punish Clare for every disagreement the two women had ever had.

  Marcross frowned. "Those are grave charges, sister. Do you have proof? If not, be silent. The house of God is no place for idle gossip."

  Every head in the congregation turned to Mrs. Elias. She was a tall, heavyset woman, her face carved by lines of righteousness. Raising one hand, she pointed at Clare and boomed, "Clare Morgan, daughter of our beloved former preacher and teacher of our children, has succumbed to wicked lust. Not four days ago, she moved into the house of Lord Aberdare, the one they call the Demon Earl. She claimed she would be his housekeeper. Yet last night, my daughter Tegwen, who works at Aberdare, found this shameless slut in the earl's embrace, half-naked and behaving with utter indecency. It was only God's grace that my innocent child did not catch her in the act of fornication." Her voice trembled theatrically. "Thank heaven your dear father is not alive to see you now!"

  The eyes of the congregation turned to Clare. Her friends, her neighbors, her former students, regarded her with shock and horror. Though many faces showed disbelief, others—too many—showed that she had already been condemned.

  Looking uncomfortable at being caught in a local dispute, Marcross said, "What have you to say for yourself, Miss Morgan? Fornication is always a sin, but it would be particularly despicable in someone like you, who holds a position of trust in the community." A murmur of agreement rose.

  The blood drained from Clare's face, leaving her faint. S
he had known this would be difficult, but the reality was more painful than she had dreamed possible. Then Marged took her hand and squeezed it. Glancing up, Clare saw concern in her friend's face, but also faith and love.

  Her support gave Clare the strength to rise to her feet. Gripping the back of the pew in front of her, she said with as much composure as she could muster, "Tegwen was one of my students, and she has always had a rich imagination. I cannot deny that she saw a kiss last night. I was feeling... grateful to Lord Aberdare, both because he saved my life yesterday, and because of actions of his that will benefit the village."

  Briefly she closed her eyes, searching for words that would be honest, yet not incriminate her too badly. "I won't pretend that what I did was either wise or right, but a kiss is hardly fornication, and I swear that I was as decently clothed then as I am this moment."

  A child piped up, "What's fo'ncation?"

  Almost as one, women with young children and unmarried daughters rose and hustled their offspring outside. More than one woman cast a longing glance over her shoulder as she left, but there was no question of letting children be exposed to such a subject. As Marged collected her brood, she gave Clare a sympathetic smile. Then she, too, withdrew.

  When the room had been cleared of innocents, Mrs. Elias resumed the attack. "You can't deny that you are living with the earl, nor that you have behaved indecently."

  "Your own daughter is living under Lord Aberdare's roof," Clare pointed out. "Aren't you concerned for her virtue?"

  "My Tegwen lives with the other servants and scarcely sees the earl, but you are with him constantly. Don't try to deny it! Even if you are telling the truth and you are not yet his mistress," the sneer in Mrs. Elias's voice underlined her disbelief, "it will only be a matter of time until you surrender your virtue. We all know about the Demon Earl, how he seduced his grandfather's wife and caused the deaths of the old earl and his own wife."