Sattler, Veronica (52 page)

Then,
in a high, soaring moment of pure joy, Ashleigh cried out his name, her pleasure
breaking over them, through them, melding them as one.

And
Brett answered her cry with a harsh note of his own as his body convulsed with
hers, shuddering its release while they clung together, aware only of each
other.

After
a long time following, when their spinning senses had stilled to the point
where they could at last begin to think again, he moved his lips in her hair,
murmuring, "Ashleigh... never before, love, I swear... nothing I ever felt
was like this."

Ashleigh
closed her eyes, savoring his words. What did it matter that there'd been other
women, if this were so? If the ecstasy she'd felt were any measure of what he,
too, had shared, surely he would no longer need to seek others... surely he'd
find all he needed in her bed, just as she knew, for her, there'd never be
another man. It was all she required right now. Love, if she was patient, might
come in time, and as long as she had his body for her own, she felt she could
wait. It would not be easy, and she would need to be strong, but she would do
it; she must. And he
would
be faithful... wouldn't he?

"Brett,"
she whispered, just as she felt him slipping from inside her. She paused for a
moment, regretting the loss.

"Yes,
sweet?" he murmured, turning on his side to pull her close again.

"Will—will
you stay with me?" she ventured, not knowing how to voice her lingering
doubts more clearly.

Misreading
her question, Brett laughed softly, saying, "All night long, sweetheart.
Wild horses couldn't pull me away!"

Dismayed
that she hadn't gotten through, she lost the courage to question him further.
With a sigh, she snuggled against his warmth, promising herself to approach him
again... soon.

They
slept then, with Brett's arm wrapped possessively about her as their sated,
naked bodies took a respite from their passion.

It
was many hours later, during the time they call false dawn, that Ashleigh awoke
to find Brett thrashing about on the bed beside her. His voice split the air
with an anguished cry.

"But
what did she look like? Won't you tell me...? Please! Tell me why she would
leave without even saying goodbye.... I beg you... please, I need to
understand—"

"Brett!"
Ashleigh reached for his shoulder to give him a shake. "Brett, wake up!
You're dreaming!"

"Mother,
don't go! I—" Suddenly Brett sat upright, his face an anguished mask,
beads of perspiration along his brow.

"Brett,
it's all right," Ashleigh soothed. "It was just a bad dream."

Picking
up on the crooning note in her voice, he stiffened, fully alert to his
surroundings now, and yet deeply suspicious of what, in his sleep, he'd
revealed. "What did I say?" he asked sharply.

Bewildered
by his tone, Ashleigh withdrew her hand from his shoulder. "It was
nothing," she told him. "You were merely having a—"

"For
Christ's sake, Ashleigh!
What did I say?"

Not
comprehending the fear that fed his anger—fear of his own vulnerability, that
he might have exposed to her some deeper part of himself without knowing it—she
reacted only to the sting of his tone. "You spoke of someone leaving
you... a—a woman... of her going without any farewell, I believe."

"And...?"
Brett's lips were drawn into a hard, straight line and his eyes scrutinized her
face with unwavering coldness.

Hurt
that he should behave toward her in this manner, especially after what they'd
shared just hours before, Ashleigh reacted with an anger of her own. "For
God's sake, Brett! You question me as if I have been privy to a confession of
murder! Leave it alone! What is it to me that in your dreams, you cry out for
your mo—"

"Damn
you!" he shouted, grabbing her by the shoulders. "Damn you to hell,
Ashleigh!"

"Me?
Damn
me?"
she responded incredulously, shaking free of his grasp.
"What have I done? I only sought to wake you, that you would cease to be
tormented by—by childhood pain at your mother's desertion. Damn
you,
I
say! Yes,
you!
Brett,
I am not your mother!"

Brett's
face turned white with emotion for several long seconds. Then, without saying a
word, he left the bed and quickly donned his breeches; pausing only a moment to
gather up the rest of his clothes, he went to the door without a single glance
in her direction, opened it, and left, slamming it behind him. A second later
Ashleigh heard the sound of the lock turning, and, choked with disbelief, she
crumpled to the mattress with a sob.

* * * * *

From
her position at one of the tall drawing-room windows, Margaret watched Brett's
phaeton leave the drive. She'd risen early, awakened by the sound of a door
crashing shut, down the hall from her chamber. Aware neither of their servants
would have dared to slam a door, she'd guessed it was her grandnephew
departing, and from his wife's chamber—in a fury!

Smiling
slyly to herself, she turned from the window. It was a perfect time to effect a
plan that had been growing in her mind since her discussion with Brett
yesterday. She could not chance waiting until he
—perhaps
—came around to
her way of thinking on what to do about his disastrous marriage. The situation
warranted action.

Hastening
toward the stairs, Margaret thoughtfully fingered the key she'd taken from the
ring the housekeeper had left in the pantry: the key to Ashleigh Sinclair's
chamber—she would never refer to her as anything but Sinclair; just the thought
of the creature as a Westmont was anathema to her. Margaret's smile reappeared
as she reached the upstairs hallway. If she hurried, she might still find the
girl immersed in the tears she'd heard her shedding earlier when she'd listened
outside her door, and that would help; she wanted Ashleigh Sinclair at her most
vulnerable.

Ashleigh
raised her tear-stained face from the rumpled bedclothes as she heard someone
approach. Thinking it might be Higgins with her breakfast tray, she hurriedly
slid off the bed and retrieved the sheet she'd been wearing, barely managing to
stave off a new flood of weeping when she recalled how the sheet had come to be
on the floor. She had just finished wrapping it about her when she heard a key
turning in the lock, and wondered at this, for Higgins always knocked before
entering. With a quick swipe at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, she
tried to assume a dignified stance as the door opened, but when she recognized
the black-clad figure who entered, her attempt at composure fell apart.

"Lady
Margaret! What are— I mean, I—I beg your pardon, but I didn't know you were
here."

"I've
just arrived... a few moments ago," Margaret added mendaciously. It was
important to her plan to have the girl think she'd been summoned
after
the
scene that had prompted her weeping. "I—ah—had been staying with a dear
friend in town... she's been ill, bedridden, that is, and therefore I remained
in her home rather than here, for I wished to be available to read to her, to
cheer her up, you see, while she was recovering." The door closed behind
her, Margaret stepped closer to Ashleigh.

"I
see," said Ashleigh, wondering what any of this had to do with her.

Not
yet, my dear... but you will,
thought Margaret. She continued
speaking, eyeing Ashleigh's tear-ravaged face as she did so. "Brett was
aware of where I was, so it was quite easy for him to ask me to come by this
morning..." Margaret allowed her words to trail off suggestively while she
watched Ashleigh's face for a reaction.

"Brett
sent for you just now? But, why?"

"Well,
I suppose it was because he couldn't attend to...
things
himself, my
dear. When he dropped by, he was in a frightful hurry... something about a
riding engagement with Lady Pamela Marlowe, I believe."

Ashleigh
gave a short, involuntary gasp of dismay at the mention of her husband's
mistress.
Oh, dear God, no! How could he?
she cried inwardly.
The bed
we shared last night still bears the imprint of his body while he
— Hastily
taking a breath in an attempt to regain her composure, she made a deliberate
effort to focus on what else Margaret had told her.
"Things,
Lady
Margaret? What things? I'm afraid I don't—"

"You
look a bit pale, my dear," said Margaret. "I understand you've only
Higgins to wait on you, and he's presently busy in the stable. Shall I send my
abigail for something in the kitchen? Would you care for some tea or—"

"Oh,
no, no, thank you," Ashleigh replied hastily, for she was anxious now to
learn why her husband had sent for his great-aunt with such apparent urgency
this morning; she had an uneasy feeling it had something to do with her, for
why else would this woman, who had clearly never cared for her, have come to
seek her out? "But Lady Margaret," she continued, "you mentioned
some 'things' Brett wished attended to...?"

"Ah,
yes," said Margaret, turning deliberately toward the fireplace so Ashleigh
couldn't catch the look of satisfaction she feared her face might reveal.
Appearing to study the Turner landscape that hung over the mantelpiece, she
added, "Well, I was speaking of the immediate arrangements Brett wishes to
make—for the divorce, that is."

There
was a deadly silence in the room, punctuated only by the steady ticking of the
mantel clock beneath the painting, while Ashleigh closed her eyes in a futile
attempt to blot out what she'd heard. So he was seeking the divorce at last....
Well, it was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? But then, why did she feel as if
she'd been cut to the heart?
Because, after what he shared with you last
night, you'd assumed there was a chance for this marriage!
a small voice
answered.
Yes, but that was before that insane quarrel this morning,
another
voice countered.
That was before he showed you he carries some demons inside
that will never allow him the peace to be happy with a woman, to love a woman!
Face it, you foolish girl! He wants to be rid of you. Margaret's being summoned
is the final proof.

Opening
her eyes, Ashleigh met the older woman's cool blue gaze. "I
understand," she said softly. She hoped Margaret couldn't see the absolute
act of will it took to keep her voice from revealing anything more than a tone
of quiet resignation. It was all too obvious she'd been crying before the older
woman came to her chamber, but she'd die rather than allow her to see her
succumb to such emotion now.

Forcing
her face to remain blank, Ashleigh asked, "Am I to be allowed to leave,
then?"

"Oh,
His Grace did not say," replied Margaret as she turned toward the door,
"but I'm sure you will be shortly, my dear. Just as soon as our
solicitors... well, you know how these things are... preparations need to be
exact—to avoid any hint of a scandal, you see." She turned back to
Ashleigh when she reached the door. "That is where you can be of some
help, I should think. Perhaps the next time you see the duke, you can quietly
insist he reach your brother. Ah, he does maintain a residence in London, does he
not? It shouldn't be too difficult to convince Brett that the best way to avoid
unpleasant talk would be to have you accompany your sibling back to America.
Out of sight, out of mind, you know." Margaret turned and opened the door.

"Well,
my dear, I can see this hasn't been easy for you but I'm sure, in the end,
you'll realize it was the wisest thing. In the meantime, have a spot of tea. It
does wonders for an upset. I'll send someone up with a tray. Good day."

She
stepped through the door, closed it, and after turning the lock, left Ashleigh
alone.

The
large brougham turned into the paved courtyard of the Georgian town house on
King Street, then pulled up behind a barouche that was already standing there,
its calash lowered in obvious deference to the warm weather, a liveried driver
nodding sleepily in the sun while he loosely held the reins.

"That
would be Lady Bunbury's carriage," whispered a male voice inside the
second vehicle, "just where Higgins said it would be."

Megan
looked up at Patrick from where she sat, dressed in seaman's clothing, on the
floor of the closed carriage. "How clever or alert does the driver
look?" she asked in a low voice.

Patrick
chuckled. "He looks neither, and might even be snoring. That old windbag's
probably kept him out here for an hour. But even so, not to worry, love.
Thornton's ready to distract him if we need it." He gestured in the
direction of the driver's seat where Abner Thornton, the
Ashleigh Anne'
s
first mate, posed as their driver. "Now, the important thing for you
to remember is not to run for the side of the house until I've been inside for
at least five minutes. That way—"

"Patrick
St. Clare! D' ye take me fer a
bosthoon?"
Megan fumed in a rough
whisper. "We rehearsed this half the night! I can surely remember t' give
ye time t' distract the old crone so she doesn't see me makin' fer the bushes
outside o' the chamber where they've incarcerated the wee one!"