The Heart Denied (13 page)

"Aye." Thorne downed the rest of his brandy, grateful for the fire in his throat and the warm coals in his belly. "From then on, my boyhood pursuits paled."

"A pity. But there'd been no romance, no hand-holding, that sort of thing, with Lena?"

"You
will
have it all, won't you? I kissed her twice. Once in the larder and again at Beck's Hollow, when she followed me up a tree--later I carved our initials inside a heart on the trunk of that old ash. We never embraced. Awkward business at that age. I did present her with a tiny vial of my father's sandalwood oil, it being the closest thing I could find to perfume, and though she laughed, I think she rather liked it."

"So, Lena was your first love as a youth...who was your first as an adult?"

He considered lying, but something about Caroline encouraged the bald truth no matter how unpleasant or difficult to tell. Her own candor, no doubt. But there was something more. He could not put his finger on it.

"I've never experienced an all-consuming passion for anyone," he admitted. "Flirtations, yes, but none that made me forget myself." He smiled grimly. "I observed early on that 'love' is ultimately self-destructive. I acquired my education in the art of seduction through a more readily available means...one on which many university men rely."

Caroline's mouth twitched. "I see. Then you were never in love."

"Alas," Thorne said, feigning a tragic expression, "I fear not.

"Until you met Gwynneth."

The few beats of silence he let go by were too many, he knew; she was clever, this woman, and he'd best not forget it. "Yes, until I met Gwynneth. Different for you, I suppose," he said evenly. "No doubt Horace was merely the last in a long line of lov-" He broke off.
Bloody hell.
He'd only meant to turn the tables, not to commit another unpardonable blunder. She did seem to bring out the worst in him. "Damn my churlishness," he muttered, his face growing warm. "I shan't blame you for giving me the boot."

"No," Caroline said quietly. "No, I think perhaps I dug too deeply. Besides, I'd like to talk about Horace, if you don't mind listening."

"Not at all," he assured her, relieved.

"Thank you." She sighed, sadly but without self-pity. "He was not my first husband. I was married once before, to a man who wooed me, showered me with gifts and, I'm sorry to say, impressed me with his title and connections"--she nodded as Thorne looked surprised--"until I was legally his. Then his true nature surfaced.

"Suffice it to say," she went on wryly, "that I endured a few bruises and sprains before I gathered my wits and fled. I supported myself and avoided him by assuming an alias and finding a situation in a tavern off Fleet Street--not the sort of establishment
he
frequented, or the kind of company he kept, but that's another matter. At any rate, Horace turned up frequently with his solicitor in that tavern, and a kinder man I'd never met. We wed soon after he helped me extricate myself from my sham of a marriage."

She stared into the fire, a vague smile on her exquisite face. "Horace was smitten with me, and seldom let me out of his sight. Together we feted London society. He often said that without me he could never have been the success he was. He lavished me with extravagant tokens of his affection...and was more than generous with affection itself."

There was no blush with that last revelation, Thorne noticed.

"It was only in this last year, the fourth of our marriage, that Horace became a different man--distant, short-tempered, and terribly apathetic. It frightened me," Caroline confessed. "It seemed my past had come back to haunt me, only in a different manner and with a different man.

"So you see, I've mourned for the past six months or more for the Horace I once knew, the Horace that loved me and made it obvious. And call it intuition or what you will, but at times I've the odd sense that my first husband might have had a hand in Horace's dependency."

"What do you mean?"

"Just...nothing. Nothing at all." She looked cornered, a bit wild-eyed. "You must never repeat what I've just said, not to anyone. My first husband is powerful, evil, and vicious when crossed. He has allies everywhere, those beholden to him for various reasons--henchmen, if you will. I must bind you to secrecy, Thorne, or I shall end up in the Thames, and that is no exaggeration. Please, give me your word on it."

"God's bones, who the devil
is
this blackguard?" Thorne rose, extending a hand to Caroline, which she readily took. "You won't tell me," he guessed, scowling.

She shook her head. "'Tis in both our best interests."

"Never mind, you've my oath." He gently squeezed her fingers. "I shan't breathe a word to a soul...no, not even to her," he said, reading the question on Caroline's face.

Tears welled in her eyes. She tried to wrest her hand from him.

I weep alone
,
she'd said. And no wonder, Thorne mused. Had she any choice, alone as she'd been in her troubles? Even Horace, her rescuer and protector, had become her abuser in the end.

"Let me go," she was murmuring.

"No. Not this time." Thorne gripped her hand, pulling steadily upward.

"Leave me!" came her choked whisper, but already he had her up out of the chair.

"I won't leave you. Look at me."

She jerked her head aside.

"
Look
at me, Caroline."

Slowly she obeyed, and in those dark wet orbs Thorne saw not only her pain, but also the shame she felt for letting it be seen.

"You've naught of which to be ashamed," he muttered fiercely. "And you'll
not
weep alone this time, by God. I won't let you."

A sob wrenched free from Caroline's lips; she bowed her head, and the dam broke.

Thorne slid an arm about her waist and gently pressed her cheek against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his own breath as he sank his lips into her hair. Her sobs strengthened, her body trembling and convulsing in his grasp. His breathing grew uneven as he steadied her by clasping her more firmly against him.

But almost as suddenly as she'd lost it, Caroline regained her composure, pulling away from his embrace and accepting the handkerchief he offered her.

"Take a deep breath," he told her, his voice husky, "and let it out slowly." Silently he did the same, hoping to clear his head. Caroline took another long gulp of air as he guided her to the doorway.

"There, how do you feel?"

"Utterly exhausted," she confessed, and blew her nose.

"Good."

"What?" She scowled at him over the handkerchief.

"You'll sleep all the better for it." On the gallery outside her boudoir, he squeezed her hand and turned it loose. "Goodnight, Caroline."

"Goodnight, Thorne." The black pools of her eyes shimmered in the sconcelight. "You're a good friend."

As Gwynneth hoped I'd be.
Inwardly he winced, wondering if he would prove as good a husband.

"Master's home," the cook told the steward.

"Aye," Arthur replied, tapping a keg of cider in the larder. "Saw his boots in the entry. He needs a manservant, they're a mess. Where's he gotten to?"

"Likely in his study, I've heard naught on the stairs." Bridey set a plate of oat cakes before Arthur as he sat down at the worktable, keeping hold of it until he looked up at her.

"Will you tell him?" she asked, her expression grim.

"'Tis not my concern, Bridey, or any of yours."

"Humph!" She snatched up the plate of cakes; it was only Arthur's quick reflexes that snagged one before she took them away.

He ate it hastily, rinsing it down with the cider, then rose, hat in hand. "You'll have a cartload of kitchen produce in this afternoon from Rawlings's fields."

"Humph!" she said again.

Arthur found the study door ajar.

"Good morning," Thorne said without turning from the window. "I see harvest has begun."

"Aye, started without you. Brought you some cider." Arthur came to stand beside him, where they watched the hypnotic yet jarring rhythm of the scythes the workers swung in the rippling field across the beck.

Thorne took the mug of cider. "Well, what dreadful news this time?"

The steward chuckled. "None, I'm happy to say. Harvest is coming along splendidly, the sheep and the dairy herd are quite healthy, and no one died while you were away."

"And Lady Neville...how fares she?"

"Well enough, I think."

"Meaning?"

Arthur looked slightly pained. "She's taken on her role as lady of the house with...enthusiasm."

"To her credit, I should hope?"

"To some dissatisfaction among the servants."

Thorne cocked an eyebrow. "And yourself?"

"'Tis naught to do with me," Arthur assured him hastily. "Carswell is the one to ask."

"I shall ask my wife, thank you. Is that all?"

  Arthur softly cleared his throat. "You might want to know, they're saying in the village that there's a curse upon this house and its lands--aye, I know," he said, hearing Thorne swear quietly in exasperation. "'Twas bad enough the sheep were dying. Then came Barker's murder and Henry's trampling. Now 'tis said the old tower
is haunted. Worse yet, word got 'round that Mister Sutherland died just hours after leaving here in a huff. You know how superstitious folk can-"

"Rubbish," Thorne interrupted, and started for door. "They need something to gossip about, is all. So, where to this morn?"

"All about. Fields and orchards."

Thorne nodded. "I'll find you later. Depending," he added under his breath, "on what I find here."

* * *

Just outside Gwynneth's chambers, Thorne heard the drone of her voice, but found the door bolted. A sharp rap brought an answer.

"Thorne!" 

"My lady. I hope I'm not interrupting?"

"No, of course not." She clutched the door with one hand, the front edges of her wrapper with the other. "I've only just risen, so I'm a bit scattered. Come, sit." She led the way into her bedchamber and settled at her dressing table. "How was your journey?" She cast furtive glances at him in the mirror as she brushed her hair. "Did you ride all night? How fares Caroline?"

Thorne touched her shoulder. "One at a time, my lady. Might you welcome me home first with a kiss?"

Gwynneth offered her lips like an obedient child, looking surprised when her husband only grazed them. Surprise turned to astonishment as he took the brush from her and proceeded to run the boar bristles through her hair with smooth, practiced strokes.

"I heard your voice just before I knocked. Yet we're alone. Are you in the habit of talking to yourself?" His eyes followed hers to the dressing table, and he had his answer.

"I was saying my Rosary." She picked up the linked beads. "A long-standing habit. It gives me comfort and strength for the day ahead."

"Then I apologize for intruding. It hadn't occurred to me. I thought you were confiding your heart's secrets to your maid."

Their eyes met in the mirror. Gwynneth looked wary, watchful, as if gauging his mood. "Has Dame Carswell spoken to you?" she asked after a moment.

"No. Should she have?"

Gwynneth sighed and shook her head. "You won't believe what has happened, Thorne. I hardly know how to tell you, but you should have it from me. And you did broach the subject, after all."

"The subject?"

"My maid. Combs."

Thorne halted the brush in mid-stroke, his blood going cold. "What about her?"

"She...she...oh, I can hardly say the words...Thorne, the woman is with
child
!" Gwynneth's cheeks flamed.

Mechanically, he resumed brushing.

"Thorne, did you hear me?"

"Distinctly, my lady."

"Then you mustn't have understood. Combs is
unwed
."

"I quite understood."

Gwynneth stared incredulously at him in the mirror. "She's carrying a
bastard
in her belly...she is a
fornicator
!"

Gently, deliberately, Thorne laid the brush on the dressing table, and crossed to the fire.

"My lord?"

Hearing the rustle of her skirts as she rose, he stopped her in her tracks with a harsh demand. "What's to be her fate, then, my lady?"

"Why, I...I've already taken action. I dismissed her, of course. What would
you
have me do?"

Thorne's long black mane whipped through the air as he turned to confront Gwynneth.

She stumbled backward. "You
knew
!" she cried, her eyes widening. "You already knew! Did you know it when you appointed her my maid?"

"I did."

Gwynneth clutched the neck of her wrapper with white-knuckled fingers. "You chose her to attend
your own wife
? Sir, have you no
shame
?"

"When was she dismissed?"

"Yestereve, just before I retired. What of it?"

Thorne advanced, jaws clenched, blue eyes drilling into green. "Did she name the father?"

"Hobbs denies it!" Gwynneth scurried backward a few steps.

"Where is Carswell in all this?"

"She is with
me
." Gwynneth's voice trembled. "We dismissed Combs
together
. So, did I act through proper channels? Am I not permitted to dismiss a servant by my own power? Especially one who has committed such a grievous and
wicked sin?"

"Her 'sin'," Thorne snapped, "was equally shared by another, almost certainly my stableman. Have you dismissed him as well, my lady? Are you a
fair
judge and executioner?"

Gwynneth gaped at him, then burst into tears.

Swearing through his teeth, Thorne paced before the fire, twice reaching to pull a handkerchief from his pocket, but each time finding compassion beyond him.

"How can you be so cold?" Gwynneth wailed. "I, a new bride in a new home, facing an abominable circumstance in your absence, acted in what I deemed a responsible manner--by denying an evil woman the privilege of serving in a God-fearing house!" Gwynneth stamped her foot, her usually pale face as florid as that of her father. "And I believe her allegations against Hobbs to be false. He is an
honorable
man!"

Thorne stopped his pacing to scowl at her. "Combs is no more evil than you or I, she's merely human--which is more than I can say for Carswell and her ilk. And do tell, my lady, how you know Hobbs is an honorable man."

"I've ridden with him. He kindly showed me some bridle paths in the forest."

"If you had only waited, I'd have gladly shown you whatever you wanted to see."

"I needed
something
to occupy my time," Gwynneth countered peevishly. "I'd no idea how long you might be away!"

She blanched at the ferocity of Thorne's glare.

"I was not away by
choice
,
my lady--you dispatched me there! And I worked like a madman to get home to you as soon as possible."

Like sunlight bursting through clouds, Gwynneth's face transformed. "You were anxious to return?"

Thorne's scowl softened as he took Gwynneth gently by the shoulders. "My lady, have you forgotten how disturbed I was at the notion of leaving you so soon? You had to beg me to go."

She had the grace to look ashamed. "I did plead," she admitted, as he blotted her tears with his handkerchief. "How is Caroline?"

"She'll manage quite well, I think."

"You see?" Gwynneth's tone sounded oddly dull. "You
were
a help to her, as I knew you'd be." Thorne had slid his hands down her arms and was eyeing the ribbons of her wrapper; she clutched it to her neck again. "I must get dressed."

"You'll need help."

"No! No, please, I shall manage."

Thorne's voice turned dry. "I only meant I'd have Carswell send assistance directly, my lady."

Gwynneth blushed--embarrassed she'd mistaken his intention? Or ashamed he'd guessed her fears? Or both? God's blood, how long would this nonsense go on? The wave of despair that assailed Thorne threatened to suck him under.

"Thank you, my lord," Gwynneth was saying faintly.

"No trouble, my lady. Good day."

* * *

"But M'lord!" The housekeeper's voice trilled with indignation.

"Dame Carswell."

Her mouth snapped shut.

"I've high regard for your opinion, but in the end my own opinion will out. Always." Thorne arched his brow. "Need I say more?"

"No, M'lord." Her lips barely moved. "I quite understand."

"Tell me then, what other gainful employment Combs might find in this house. Something more reclusive."

"She might perhaps assist Markham, the seamstress. Her eyesight has grown poor."

"Can Combs sew?"

"She has mended altar cloths for St. Michael's," was the grudging reply.

"Is she Roman Catholic?" The inappropriateness of the question only struck Thorne as Carswell stared at him in startled silence.

"No, M'lord," she said, finding her voice. "Combs attends the manor church."

"No matter. She'll work topstairs with Markham, then. Tell Bridey to have her meals sent up."

The housekeeper stiffened--as if she wasn't already an utter stick already--and Thorne's left eyebrow took wing again. "Something else, Dame Carswell?"

"Only, M'lord, that the kitchen maids might balk at bringing her meals."

Thorne smacked his forehead. "What in God's name was I thinking? We gentlefolk mustn't feed such hardened criminals as she!" Giving up the charade, he scowled at the housekeeper. "Would you have the woman parade belowstairs thrice a day in her condition?"

The housekeeper's chin nearly thumped her chest. "Heavens,
no
, M'lord!"

"Then tell Combs of her change in situation. I trust you and Lady Neville did not turn her immediately out of the Hall yesterday?"

"No, M'lord." Dame Carswell looked both infuriated and relieved by the fact. "I shall inform her of your decision straightaway. Markham, too."

"It pleases me," Thorne said, his penetrating gaze fastened on the housekeeper, "to know I can depend upon you to carry out orders, and that I needn't concern myself further with the matter."

"I shall see to it immediately, M'lord."

Her deep curtsey gave him pause, not for the first time, to reflect that the more ruffled Dame Carswell's feelings, the lower she dipped her knee.

He nearly smiled. Perhaps someday her ass would hit the floor.

* * *

"Good day, Milady." Hobbs bowed with a flourish. "I thought nothing could surpass the beauty of this day. I see I was quite wrong."

Gwynneth blushed from the Kelly-green ruff of her riding frock to the roots of her hair. "You are very kind, Hobbs."

"Kindness has nothing to do with it." He boosted her into the saddle and watched her hook her right knee over the pommel, then secured the stirrup under the arch of her boot.

Arranging her skirts, Gwynneth glancing shyly at him from under the brim of her veiled riding bonnet, and blushed anew at the frank admiration in his gaze.

"Will you need a guide today, Milady? I should be honored to serve."

"Thank you, Hobbs, but not today."

"Off to meet his lordship, then." The words sounded more clipped than he'd intended.

Gwynneth gazed westward. "Perhaps later," she murmured. "Just now I want to ride to Beck's Hollow."

"Then take care on the ridge paths, Milady. Give Abigail her head. She's cautious and canny. Enjoy your ride!" He slapped Abigail lightly on the flank, then watched horse and rider trot down the curving drive toward the road.