Thunder and Roses (51 page)

“The staff are all enjoying champagne in the servants’ hall.” He moved toward her purposefully. “And have you forgotten that it was afternoon the day we drove back from Penreith? And in the hayloft three days ago. And …”

“But those times it just happened, it wasn’t premeditated like this.” Her voice was prim, but she leaned over and rested her arms on the table rail so he could see her
decolletage
.

His brows took on a diabolical arch. “You’re claiming those occasions aren’t premeditated? Then why did you follow me up the ladder to the hayloft and put your hand on my—?

Laughing, she cut him off. “Please, my lord! Must you remind me of how weak-willed I am?”

“I prefer to think of what a splendidly obliging wife you are.” He began to circle the table, like a cat stalking a mouse. “I need to erase the memory of that last game in London, or I might never play billiards again.”

Her eyes began to sparkle. Perhaps it had been three or four glasses of champagne, not two. “In that case,” she purred, “we should reproduce the general conditions of the game, while changing the conclusion.”

Gracefully she sat on the edge of a chair, drew up her hem, and kicked off her kidskin slipper. Then she lifted her foot and languidly peeled off a stocking, careful to let him catch a fleeting glimpse of inner thigh. It was much like what she had done in London, but this time the game would end differently. A slow burn of desire curled through her at the knowledge. She tossed the stocking at Nicholas. “Your turn, my lord husband.”

He caught the sheer silk with one hand and inhaled the scent. “An intoxicating fragrance of lilacs and Clare.” His dark eyes watching her with hypnotic intensity, he peeled off his coat with a ripple of muscular shoulders.

Then it was her turn again. Garment by garment, they slowly unclothed themselves, not touching except with heated gazes. It was like an exotic dance, both sensual and ragingly erotic.

When the time came to remove her stays, she glided up to him, then turned so that he could release her. For a man who always moved with absolute mastery, he suffered an amazing attack of clumsiness, his hands drifting to curves that were nowhere near the laces.

He dropped the quilted dimity to the floor and pulled her against him, caressing her breasts with luxuriant thoroughness. Sighing with delight, she leaned back, tempted to stay in his embrace. It was obvious from the hard ridge of flesh that pressed into her buttocks that he was fully aroused, as was she. But she summoned her schoolmistress discipline and slid teasingly away again, for delay would only fan the flames higher.

He removed his drawers, revealing himself in all his rampant masculinity. The last item left was her shift. Drawing out the moment, she untied the drawstring, then pulled it provocatively over her head, shimmying her whole body as she did.

He stepped toward her eagerly, but she held up a hand, stopping him. She levered herself up to the rail on the end of the table and perched there, legs loosely crossed. Then she pulled the pins from her hair and shook it free so that it cascaded over her back and breasts like dark silk.

The effect was explosive. Like a tempest, Nicholas swept her back onto the green baize, and they completed what had been so painfully unfinished in London. In the last week their bodies had become exquisitely attuned to each other, and their joining was tender and playful and wild.

After, as they lay in each other’s arms, wantonly fulfilled, he murmured, “There is much to be said for premarital consummation. It makes the wedding day far more enjoyable.”

“That is a truly subversive thought, exactly the sort of thing that gets a man a rakish reputation.” She laughed softly. “You were right at the beginning, when you said that if I lost, we would both win.”

He stroked his fingers into her tangled hair. “I think it was a draw, due to your clever management. We both won without either of us having to lose.”

Except Nicholas, who had lost his bachelorhood, but since he didn’t seem troubled by that she would not remind him. “The new table has a wonderful playing surface,” she said lazily, “but I think it needs to be heavier—surely our activity must have moved it two or three feet across the floor.” Her voice became
schoolmistressy
. “Also, baize cannot disguise the fact that slate is cooler against one’s bare person than the wood was.”

Effortlessly he lifted her on top of him. “Is it sufficiently warm if you lie on this bare person?”

”
Mmm
, yes.” Once again their lovemaking had contained a hint of that ultimate intimacy, and her heart was so full that she could no longer keep silent. Looking down into his black eyes, she said a little wistfully, “Can you bear it if I say that I love you? I have since the first time I saw you, I think. I was five or six years old. It was spring, and you came to the cottage looking for my father. You rode bareback on a piebald pony and were the most fascinating being I had ever seen. You didn’t even notice my existence.”

He became very still, his gaze searching hers. “Really?”

“Really. I watched you whenever I could, remembered every word you ever spoke to me.”

“Some of them were probably rude.”

“Yes. Shall I recite them for you?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” He linked his arms around her naked waist and studied her warily. “If you were in love with me, you certainly didn’t act like it when you came up here to bully me into helping with your projects.”

“I never thought of it as love—how could there be anything between the heir to an earldom and the penniless daughter of a dissenting preacher? I might as well have wished to have the moon in my pocket. But you were always there, in my mind. In my heart, though I didn’t admit it to myself.”

He was silent, his hands restlessly kneading her lower back and buttocks. Again she sensed withdrawal, and knew that her love was a burden he did not want to bear.

She rested her head on his shoulder, her hair spilling across his chest. “I’m sorry,” she said, quietly aching. “I shouldn’t have told you. It sounds as if I was being dreadfully calculating. But I wasn’t.”

“You’re right, you shouldn’t have told me.” There was a dark edge to his voice. “I distrust people who say they love me. The words are invariably used as a weapon. Those I trust most are those who have made the least show of their devotion.”
      

She supposed that he meant friends like Lucien and Rafe. Who were the ones who had openly declared their love? His mother? His grandfather? His wife?

His betrayers.

“Forget I spoke,” she said lightly. “I married you to give our hypothetical unborn child a name, to have a partner for billiards, and because a husband is a very cozy thing to have during a Welsh winter. No trust is required.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “For what it’s worth, I trust you as much as I trust anyone.” Catching her face between his hands, he kissed her with a strange kind of yearning, as if he both wanted and feared her love. But when he spoke again, it was only of the mundane. “I hope that the weather stays fine like this tomorrow for the trip to
Penrhyn
.”

Weather was such a useful, safe, subject.

 
Cold eyes watched through the field glasses as the Earl of Aberdare and his brand-new countess rode away from Aberdare, casually clothed, their horses carrying full saddlebags. The watcher gave a grim smile of satisfaction at the sight. Once he had decided what must be done, everything had fallen into place perfectly. Aberdare made no secret of his plans to ride to northwest Wales, or his route. A few casual words spoken by servants, and soon the whole valley knew where Aberdare was going, and when, and why.

It would have been harder near Penreith, but once Aberdare was in the wild hill country, it would be dead easy to set the ambush. All of the arrangements had been made—the plan set, the route chosen, the men hired. Within forty-eight hours, his problems would be solved—and justice would be served.

 
The first night of their honeymoon was clear and they slept beneath the stars just as Nicholas had promised. After making love Clare cuddled in his arms while he pointed out different constellations and related the Romany legends of how they had been placed in the sky.

As she drifted off to sleep, he wondered how he had come to be so lucky. She was everything Caroline was not—warm, witty, down to earth, perceptive and loyal; she filled spaces that had been empty in his life since he was a child. A little too perceptive, perhaps; he hadn’t realized how much he had revealed to her until she had made her uncomfortably accurate guess about Caroline. Luckily the worst of that would never be known.

He supposed, Clare being the woman she was, that love and loyalty went together. He could bear the knowledge that she loved him as long as she was discreet on the subject. It was far safer not to say too much, or expect too much.

He rolled onto his side and gathered her close, then tucked the blanket around her chin. The night was alive with wind and soft sounds, a true Romany bedchamber. Someday he’d have to take her on a visit to meet his mother’s people. He grinned, wondering how far she would get in reforming Romany ways or trying to teach reading to Romany children. Even Clare would fail there. Be a good way to keep the minx humble.

Heart at peace, he slept.

 
Clare had known she would enjoy this journey simply because she would be with Nicholas, and for a few days they would have no tasks beyond riding and
reveling
in each other. Nonetheless, she was surprised at how very much she was enjoying herself. In the day and a half they had been traveling, he had opened up, become relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen before. The open air must bring out the Gypsy in him.

As she gave him a doting glance, she noticed a dark coiled shape showing below the cloak that was lashed on top of his saddlebags. “Why did you bring a whip when we have no carriage?”

“Gypsy habit, mostly. A whip has many uses. For example …” He detached the whip, then cracked it sharply. The tip wrapped around a branch high above their heads. When he tugged on the handle, the limb bowed down within his reach. “If there were ripe apples there, we would be able to feast.”

She laughed. “I never thought about it, but I can see that a traveling life has a special body of knowledge all its own.”

He coiled and replaced the whip, then indicated a bird in a nearby tree. “There are Gypsies near.”

She studied the slender black and white bird. “To me that looks like a pied wagtail, not a Gypsy.”

“It’s also called the
Romani
chiriklo
, the Gypsy bird,” he explained. “If you see one, there are Rom in the vicinity.”

She glanced around, but they were high in the hill country, with no signs of human existence except the narrow road. “They conceal themselves well.”

“Watch and we’ll see.”

About half a mile farther, he gestured at a tree. “See the gray rag tied to that branch?” When she nodded, he explained, “That’s a trail mark, for one kumpania to tell others that it has passed. A mark is called a
patrin
, which means leaf, but it can take many forms—piles of twigs, or stones, or rags, like that one. See how it is tied above the eye level of the average rider? If you don’t know to look, it would be easily missed.”

Intrigued, she said, “So your kin leave messages for each other. How clever. Do you know the people who left this one?”

“Probably—I’ve visited every kumpania that travels regularly in Wales.” He studied the rag. “In fact, I can narrow it down to one of about five groups. There’s a Romany campsite a few miles farther along this road. Would you like to visit if they are there?”

“I’d love to,” she replied.

But the weather was against them. There had been fitful showers all morning, and as the afternoon advanced a steady, drenching rain began to fall. Clare did not complain—to live in Wales was to know about wetness —but it did take some of the enjoyment out of the day.

As she tugged her cloak around her, Nicholas said, “There’s a
travelers
‘ hut not far ahead. Shall we stop for the night?”