Falling in Love Again (20 page)

He hugged her close. “No, it's never been like that before,” he answered. He pulled the sheets out from underneath and covered their nakedness.

Mallory started to roll off, but he held her place. He wanted her this close. Her heart beating against his chest matched his own. Running the tips of his fingers down her back, he whispered, “I love you.”

She lifted her head to look into his eyes. “I love you, too.”

In that moment, John knew his life was complete. Sated, loved, and happy, he fell asleep holding his beloved in his arms.

 

A pounding on the door woke him. He opened one eye, and then the other. The room was filled with the gray light of dawn. The woman next to him sighed and snuggled deeper under the covers.

Mallory
.

John came up on one arm and looked down at her. She appeared more beautiful this morning than she had last night in his arms. He traced the pattern of freckles across her nose. Her nose twitched and she waved him away with her hand. She settled herself closer to him. Instantly aroused, John pressed himself against the curve of her bare bottom. He cupped her breast and bit her ear, teasing her awake.

The pounding on the door began again. John frowned. “Whoever you are, go to the devil!” he commanded, and rolled his sleepy wife over, ready to make satisfying love to her.

“Mr. Dawson!” Mrs. Irongate's voice shouted with authority. “You've overslept! It's almost time for church, and Lord Woodruff is waiting for the coach.”

Mallory's brown eyes opened. Her movements still lazy, she rubbed the sleep from them and pushed back the thick hair spilling over her shoulder in a wanton mass. Her nipple hardened against his palm.

“Mr. Dawson!”

“Aye, I hear you, Mrs. Irongate,” he answered, his gaze on Mallory, who gave him a sleepy smile. No practiced courtesan had ever seduced him so completely as his wife. “I'll bring the coach around in less than an hour.” He leaned down and traced the curve of her ear with his tongue. Her heartbeat beneath his hand on her breast quickened.

Mrs. Irongate's face popped up in the open
window. “Less than
half
an hour,” she corrected him. “You're already late.”

“Mrs. Irongate, do you think you could give us a bit of privacy?” John snapped, pulling the covers higher.

The housekeeper's shrewd gaze took in the clothes scattered across the floor. “It appears, Mr. Dawson, that the two of you have had privacy enough. Now, up with you! There's no more time for Dickie Diddle. You can lie in bed all afternoon long if you wish, but for now, you'd best be getting the coach up to the house or be looking for a new position.”

John made an irritated sound. “It's only shortly past dawn.”

“It's halfway through the morning!” she corrected him. “Why else would Lord Woodruff have sent me down here?”

Now she had John's complete attention. He stared at the sky behind her and realized that what he'd thought was the soft light of early morning was actually leaden, overcast skies.

Convinced he now understood the gravity of the situation, the housekeeper said, “We'll see you up at the house in half an hour. And you too, Mrs. Dawson. Don't forget Lord Woodruff likes to see all his servants in church. Terrell usually hitches up the hay wagon for the rest of us.” With those words, she marched off.

Mallory had come fully awake by now. She looked over her shoulder at him.

“Dickie Diddle?” he said, with a lift of an eyebrow.

A soft blush stained her cheeks. She looked so incredibly tempting, John decided to wish Lord Woodruff to the devil and pull her under the covers. After all, what did he care about another steward's position?

But Mallory stopped him. “John, we dare not make Lord Woodruff angry. We need his approval to host the harvest home. Everyone is expecting it to be here now. In fact, we should talk to him as soon as possible…and hopefully when he's in a good mood.”

John studied her, weighing his priorities.

She placed a hand on his chest. “We
must
go.” With a grunt of dissatisfaction, he threw back the covers and bounded out of the bed. He was still fully aroused. Conscious that she was watching him, he gave her a small bow as he picked his breeches up off the floor. “It's my base nature—and the natural response to having such a lovely bed partner,” he explained.

“Then we both have base natures,” she admitted shyly, and he laughed. She started out of bed, and then grimaced.

“Mallory, did I hurt you?”

“I'm sore in places I didn't know existed. I didn't feel this way after our wedding night.”

John climbed into his breeches, a niggling of guilt pulling at his conscience. “I'm sure it'll go away.”

She took a few steps around the cottage. “The stiffness is already leaving,” she said, but John wasn't listening.

Instead, he was mesmerized by his first sight of
his wife in the light of day. What a beauty he'd married and he silently thanked his father for arranging the match. Her legs were long and incredibly shapely, with slim, muscular thighs and trim calves. The rosy nipples of her breasts peeked out at him from the tangles of her hair.

With the shy expression of an innocent, she smiled at him, and John thought his heart would stop in his chest.

Here was the one woman who loved him for himself. He had no money. The fine houses, horses, and other trappings of power were gone. All that was left was the man.

She stroked his arm lightly. “I love you.”

“You have my heart.” He brought his lips down over hers, sealing his promise with a kiss.

Her surrender was as sweetly complete as it had been the night before. He would have laid her down upon the bed and taken her right then, except for Mrs. Irongate's sharp voice. “Mr. Dawson, hurry!”

John lifted his head. “Is the damn woman waiting for me outside the door?” he asked rhetorically. He placed a quick kiss on Mallory's nose. “Later, this afternoon,” he promised. He slipped on his pants, pulled on his boots, and grabbing his shirt up off the floor, let himself out.

Mrs. Irongate was impatiently waiting for him on the path. “It's about time.”

He waved her on, pulled his shirt over his head, and, whistling, headed to the barn to see if Terrell had thought to harness the coach and wagon.

John looked up at the overcast skies and
thought he'd never seen such a beautiful day. With any luck, it would rain and he
could
spend the afternoon making love to his wife.

Terrell did not have the coach hitched. John got him moving with a low growl and then hurried back to the cottage. He needed to shave and make himself presentable for church.

Rapping once on the door to let Mallory know he was coming in, he entered the cottage. “I've been thinking of how we should approach Lord Woodruff on the harvest home—” he started without preamble and stopped when he realized his wife was glaring at him with fire in her eyes. She was dressed and ready to go, her wild hair coaxed and tamed back into its proper braid, but her color was high and her fists were doubled so tight at her sides, she fairly shook with rage.

Alarmed that someone may have tried to hurt her, John rushed to her side. “Mallory, what's wrong? Has something happened?” He was her protector, her defender. No one would dare harm her while she was guarded by his love.

Words seemed to be choked in her throat. She backed away from him as if she abhorred the sight of him.

“Mallory?” He took a step toward her.

“Stop! Don't come near me.” Hot, angry tears welled up in her eyes. It broke his heart to see them there.

“What is it? Tell me what's wrong and I'll make it right.”

“Make it right?” she repeated, an edge of hysteria in her voice. “I trusted you. You told me you loved me, and I believed you.”

“Mallory, what's wrong?”

“There, John.” She pointed to the reddish-brown bloodstains on the top of the white coverlet. “There's what's wrong. Did you really believe I was so naive that I wouldn't realize I was a virgin when I saw those stains?”

J
ohn was faced with two choices: lie or admit the truth. There was the devil to pay either way.

So he decided to try and use a bit of each—the truth with a touch of a lie to make it palatable.

“Mallory, it's not what you think,” he assured her, but she wasn't interested in being placated.

“I'm right, aren't I?” She demanded impatiently.

She didn't wait for his answer, but crossed her arms against her stomach as if she felt a sudden chill and started walking for the door. He stepped in her path. She turned and walked in the opposite direction, putting space between them.

By the hearth, she confronted him. “Did you or did you not consummate our marriage on our wedding night?”

“Let me explain—”

“You can answer yes or no. It's that simple—”

“No, it's
not
that simple,” he ground out.

“You didn't,” she said, accepting his refusal to answer for what it really was, an admission of guilt. She drew a deep breath, steadying herself, before saying, “But I saw the blood on the sheets myself. There was more blood than there is now. How did you manage that?”

He held up his thumb with the small scar on it. “It was my blood you saw. I cut my thumb with a pen knife.”

She stared in fascinated horror at the scar. “Our marriage was never consummated. For the last seven years that I've spent
waiting
for you, I was never actually married in the eyes of the church or the law. I could have gotten an official annulment and accepted Hal's proposal with a free and clear conscience. I could have married another man and had children by now!”

He moved toward her. “Mallory, you're working yourself into hysterics over nothing. After all, the fact remains, we
are
married.” He reached for her arm, wanting to draw her close and reassure her. “There's no harm in what happened between us last night.”

“No harm?” She yanked her arm away and moved across the room from him. “You've
lied
to me. All this”—she waved her hand to encompass the cottage—” has fallen on my shoulders because of
my marriage
to you. I could have walked away from the fear of debtor's prison and the enormous debt and being chased through the
streets of London like a common criminal. I could have had a home and a family—”

“And I'll give you those things,” he swore, “if you will stay by me.”

“Stay by you? A man who has so completely debased everything I believe in with his lies?”

He was across the room to her in two long strides. She started to turn away, but he captured her arms. She struggled against him, tossing her head and fighting to be free.

He forced her to look at him. “I love you.”

For a second, he saw a softening in her eyes. Then she averted her face from him, the cut going directly to his heart. He struggled with the desire to shake sense into her.

“Do you remember what happened on our wedding night?” he demanded gruffly. “Beyond my walking into the room?”

Staring at the door, she refused to answer. An angry muscle worked in her jaw.

“Stop acting like Joan of Arc,” he said. “I love you, Mallory. But that night and what happened afterward has been between us since we first met in London. Let's take it out in the open now…and whether you wish to admit it or not, I know the truth.”

“What truth? That our whole marriage has been a deception?”

“All right, if that's the way you want it put! But who was deceiving whom? You don't remember anything of our wedding night. The wine you drank was drugged. You passed out in my arms before I could even touch you.”

“Let go of me,” she ordered coldly.

He did as she'd bidden him.

Mallory stepped back, rubbing the places on her arm where his hands had been.

“I didn't know the wine was drugged,” she said at last.

“Did my father have a hand in it?”

She blinked in surprise. “Your father? No, my mother did it. She hadn't meant for me to drink so much, but I was nervous and exhausted. Papa's funeral had taken so much of my time and energy and then planning the wedding on such short notice right afterward—I was not myself, and she was worried about me. Her only purpose in drugging the wine was to relax me. It wasn't meant as an insult.” She drew a deep breath. “But if you remembered it all, why didn't you tell me, John? Why have you let me live a lie for so long?”

“Because I believed that was what you wanted.” He put his hands on his hips and stared out the window before saying, “If I had confessed that I hadn't consummated the marriage, or if that damn wedding sheet hadn't been stained, Father would have ordered me back from the military. I wasn't going to give up the only freedom I'd known in my life for a mere slip of a girl who was a complete stranger to me. Furthermore, Father had already threatened to throw you and your mother out of Craige Castle unless I went along with the marriage. He told me it was the only way you could save your home.” He turned toward her. “And think what you will of me, Mallory, I'm
not so cold-blooded that I would take a green girl while she's passed out unconscious!”

“That's not the point, John. You could have told me this story at any moment over our past week together. You could have told me last night!”

“What? And have you leave me?”

“I don't know,” she replied candidly.

“There you have it,” he said. “So I shall tell you now and beg your forgiveness. Mallory, I didn't consummate our marriage seven years ago, but I did so last night out of love for you. I've never loved a woman before…and last night was like no other time before it. You're my wife. I want us to build a marriage. I want to give you the home and family you dream of.”

Tears pooled in her eyes. She looked away.

John waited, silently praying she would accept his proposal.

Her head bowed, and he knew she would not. She twisted his wedding ring from her finger. “I trusted you. Without trust, we don't have a marriage.”

He took a step forward and stopped when she held up her hand, warning him not to come closer. “Don't say that, Mallory. Don't speak words without considering them thoroughly first.”

With a small, sad smile, she shook her head. “You don't understand, do you? For seven years, I trusted you to do the right thing without love—and I paid a price. Last night, I trusted you with all my love…and I'm afraid the price is too high.” She placed the ring on the table.

“Mallory—”

“No, John.” She held up a hand, warding him back. “All I've ever asked from you was your honesty, and that turned out to be too much to give.”

Anger flared inside him at the unfairness of her accusation. “And your precious Craige Castle,” he reminded her bitterly.

“I don't have that, either, do I?” She walked to the door. She was about to open it when she looked over her shoulder to him. “Do you know, John, sometime between the chase from London and our living together here, Craige Castle ceased to be important. You'd taken its place in my heart. Now, I have nothing.”

She opened the door and left the cottage.

 

Lord Woodruff was not happy to arrive late to church.

John and Mallory stood side by side in the pew behind Lord Woodruff's, along with the other household servants. Ruth, Evie, and Terrell sat in the back with their friends.

If she'd been asked, Mallory would not have been able to say what the reverend had said in his sermon or what readings were given. But she was deeply aware of her husband.

His large hands held the hymnal, and she was all too mindful of what those hands had done to her last night, of the soft moans they'd elicited, of the pleasure they had delivered.

She could barely stand beside him, feeling the heat of his body and smelling the clean scent of Mrs. Irongate's homemade shaving soap, without
remembering how well the two of them had fitted together in bed. If she closed her eyes, she could recall the scents and textures of their lovemaking.

She warned herself not to think this way. First, he had abandoned her, and now he'd betrayed her trust in him. She repeated the warning over and over in her mind until it became a litany and wished she could ignore the burning lump in her throat.

Standing beside Mallory, John wished he could read her mind. She appeared so composed and self-possessed…while his world was falling apart. The wedding ring resting in his pocket felt as heavy as a millstone….

He would get her damned castle back for her. He'd do whatever was necessary to prove she was wrong about him and make her regret she'd ever removed the ring from her finger.

The church service ended. Lord Woodruff hurried after the vicar to argue a point made during the sermon.

Both John and Mallory were relieved that he did.

No sooner, though, had his lordship left his pew than Freddie Hanson clapped John on the back and said heartily, “Grand time last night, grand time. By the way, why don't you and Mrs. Dawson join us for Sunday dinner? We can make our plans for the harvest home.”

John said, “Yes—”

Just as Mallory said, “No.”

Without looking at each other, John amended, “No, then,” and Mallory agreed readily, “Yes, of course.”

Confused, Freddie glanced from one to the other. Then, apparently deciding to choose his own answer, he smiled and said, “Very well, we'll see you both around two.”

 

Actually, supper at the Hansons' was not such a bad idea, Mallory told herself. She and John had driven over in the pony cart in almost unbearable silence.

Well, that wasn't completely correct. He'd attempted conversation several times, but she hadn't answered. Her emotions were still too raw.

Fortunately, the two of them were seated several chairs away from each other at the dining room table with the Hanson children in between. The Reverend Luridge, the rector of St. Michael's Church, was also a guest. He was a tall, thin man with a bald head and gold-framed spectacles on the end of his nose.

Mallory had been surprised to find the vicar there. At Craige Castle, she'd always hosted the rector for the Sunday meal after the service. Apparently, Freddie Hanson, and not Lord Woodruff, assumed that role in Tunleah Mews.

Sylvie Hanson served a leg of mutton and the food was good and plentiful. Mallory noticed that John ate as if he'd never eaten before and managed to avoid answering any questions from the Hanson children about the harvest home.

“Mr. Dawson, I'm surprised to hear that Lord Woodruff has agreed to host the harvest home,” the Reverend Luridge said. “In the past, he has not been at all interested in shire activities. My congratulations to you for bringing him in.” He
took a moment to put a pat of butter on a roll before adding, “I said something to him this morning after the service about how pleased I was to see him taking part in our parish life, but he was so anxious to discuss the particular passage in Luke that I used in the reading today, I don't believe he heard me. Either way, it is good to see him and his benefactor Tyndale more involved.” He popped the roll in his mouth.

Mallory looked up the table at John, waiting for him to admit to the vicar and the Hansons that he hadn't secured Lord Woodruff's approval yet.

“Yes,” Sylvie chimed in. “Everyone is excited about the harvest home. I don't ever remember an event spawning so much enthusiasm around Tunleah Mews.”

“We're putting together a musical band,” Freddie said, leaning forward in his chair. “A few fellows and I want to practice a bit before the harvest so we play better than we did last night. You'll join us, won't you?”

Everyone stopped eating and waited for John's answer—especially Mallory. Now was the moment when he should tell all. The Hansons and the Reverend Luridge would understand that approaching Lord Woodruff wasn't easy.

John looked around the table. He took his time before answering. Mallory watched as he smiled at the Hanson children, who listened to the adult conversation with avid interest.

This community had spirit, and it saddened Mallory to realize their spirits were being starved by the lack of leadership a good landowner could provide. But if ever there was a time to admit the
truth, it was now. Mallory waited, expecting John to do the right thing.

She's just taken a sip of ale when John said, “Lord Woodruff is excited about the idea.”

Mallory choked and had to cover her mouth with her napkin. Sylvie, who had been smiling at John, turned concerned eyes on Mallory. “Are you all right, Mrs. Dawson?”

Reverend Luridge began slapping Mallory firmly on the back. “Something went down the wrong way, eh?”

She held up her hand, begging for him to stop. “I'll…be…fine,” she managed to get out, between the Reverend Luridge's assaults.

She lowered the napkin and glared meaningfully at John. “That's not entirely true about Lord Woodruff, is it,
Mr. Dawson
?” she prompted.

His lips stretched into a benign smile. “Oh, yes, thank you for reminding me,
Mrs. Dawson
. He also offered to supply the kegs of ale.”

Hanson slapped his hand down on the table. “Well done!” He laughed with delight. “Who would have thought the old miser would turn out to be so generous? This will be a harvest home like none ever seen in this shire before, right, Reverend?”

The Reverend Luridge, all smiles, rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “You're right. What a good sign this is. If Lord Woodruff is willing to do all this, perhaps we can convince him to be the benefactor of some other parish works that need to be done.”

“Such as what?” John asked, his expression one of complete sincerity and interest, enough to
make Mallory want to pull out her hair and gnash her teeth like a madwoman!