Читать книгу Marriage Under Siege - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 9

Within the week the Reverend Gower was presiding over another service in St Barnabas’s Church at Brampton Percy. He had expressed his opinions over such a speedy remarriage of the Widow as forcefully as he dare. Most unseemly, of course, in the circumstances, Lord Edward being dead less than a month, even if the Bishop of Hereford saw fit to issue a special licence. What was the world coming to when the dictates of God and Crown were held in such disrespect what with the law and order in the countryside going to rack and ruin and no honest man able to travel except in fear of his life? And now the new lord treating the laws of God in such a cavalier fashion and Lady Mansell herself willing to be a party to his schemes … But as the incumbent of a church in Lord Mansell’s gift, even God’s servant must be aware that it would not pay him to voice his disfavour too strongly if he valued his living.

Thus he presided over the marriage of Francis Brampton, Lord Mansell, and Honoria Mansell, previously Honoria Ingram, ably supported by Sir Joshua Hopton and his lively sister Mary. Given the depth of cold in the church, all the participants were well shrouded in cloaks, but it could be noticed by anyone sufficiently interested in so trivial a matter that the bride, in spite of her recent bereavement, did not wear black. It was indeed noticed and approved with a wry twist of the lips.

The service was brief and stark, the ceremonial kiss a mere cold and formal meeting of lips. Honoria found it hard to cling to reality, even as she tried to concentrate on the Reverend Gower’s reluctant blessing. Only the firm clasp of Mansell’s hand on hers kept her anchored to the fact that she was once more a bride.

The bridal party returned to the Great Hall of the castle to some semblance of festivities. The servants and the tenants of the cottages of Brampton Percy had been invited and so were present in force to enjoy the food and wish their lord and lady well. Ale, far superior to Lord Edward’s dwindling casks and brought from Ludlow under Sir Joshua’s escort, flowed freely and some local musicians had been hired to lighten the atmosphere with shawms and drums.

Honoria too had been busy, with Master Foxton’s willing help. The Hall had been restored to glory: vast logs set for a fire that would do justice to the size and height of the room, furniture arranged and more screens unearthed from the cellars to do battle against the draughts. It was a more cheerful occasion than the burial the previous week and, although it was not graced by any of the county families, it was thought by all present to be most satisfactory. And not least by Lord Mansell. Under the influence of ale and music the natural reticence of the tenants soon wore off, giving their new lord a useful opportunity to further his acquaintance and put names to faces.

‘So you have indeed married the widow!’ Catching him in a quiet moment, Sir Joshua raised his tankard in a silent toast to his friend and host. ‘I will not ask you if you know what you are doing.’

‘Tactful at last, Josh?’

‘No. You must have had your reasons.’ He grinned disarmingly. ‘Does your lady realise that your views are diametrically opposed in relation to our esteemed monarch?’

‘She does, of course. She is no fool, nor is she ignorant of the state of the county. But we are hoping that it will not cause unnecessary dissension between us. Why should it, after all?’

‘I have heard rumour. Your neighbours are beginning to see you with suspicion and there is talk of removing those who might upset the close unity hereabouts.’ Josh’s cheerful face was marred by lines of concern. ‘It might just come to a matter of arms. There are any number of extremists willing to put the matter to the sword.’

‘I know it. I too have heard such murmurings.’ Sir Francis eyed his glass of wine thoughtfully as he voiced his present concern for the first time. ‘Although I married Honoria to give her protection, I am beginning to think that I might have inadvertently put her in more danger. She might have been safer not to be tied to me. Sir William Croft did me the honour of giving me a warning of what might occur.’ He tightened his lips pensively. ‘But it is done. And perhaps today is not such for talking war.’

‘Certainly.’ Josh smiled in understanding. ‘You have my congratulations, Francis. I wish you happy. The past months have not been kind. Your lady looks well.’

‘Hmm. She does.’

Honoria was in deep debate with Mistress Brierly at the far side of the room. He had no difficulty in picking her out of the crowd today. True to her word she had cast off her mourning and now stood in the glory of a full-skirted dress of deep sapphire satin, which glowed and shimmered as she moved in the candlelight. A tiny back train fell regally from her shoulders to brush the floor when she walked. The boned bodice and low neckline drew attention to the curve of her bosom and her slender waist. The deep collar and cuffs were edged with the finest lace.

She turned from her conversation and their eyes caught across the Hall. He raised his glass in a silent salute; she responded with the faintest of smiles and a flush of delicate colour which tinted her cheeks. She had a grace and a tasteful and polished refinement of which he had been unaware. She still looked tired, but there was a glow to her fair skin and her hair shone. The deep blue was flattering to her pale complexion where the black had merely deadened her pallor. Mary, quick to volunteer her skills as lady’s maid and expert gossip, had brushed and coaxed Honoria’s soft brown hair up and back to cascade in deep ringlets with wispy curls around her temples. Hazel eyes glinted gold and green as they caught the light. She is quite lovely, he thought as he drank. How could I not have been aware?

As he watched, Honoria turned her head and bent to accept a posy of the earliest primroses from one of the village children. She smiled and spoke to the little girl, who giggled and ran to her mother’s skirts. A pretty tableau that caused many to smile and nod, but one that had Mansell catch his breath and turn his face away. Memories were so easily triggered, however unwelcome, however inappropriate. Sometimes in the dead of night, when sleep evaded him, he could still feel Katherine’s softness against him. Still taste her on his lips. Perhaps the intense grief was less than it was—he no longer wallowed helplessly, without anchor, in a sea of despair—but it still had the power to attack and rend with sharp claws. They had known each other so intimately, their moods, their thought processes even. It had been so easy to communicate by a mere look or gesture—words were not always necessary. A few short months of heaven had been granted them, together as man and wife, and now, the child also lost, he was left with a lifetime of purgatory.

He tore his tortured mind away, chided himself for allowing such thoughts to surface. Honoria deserved better. Life must go on and he had need of an heir. It was, beyond doubt, a satisfactory settlement for both himself and the lady. And with a deliberate effort of will he closed his mind against the vivid pictures of a previous such occasion when good fortune and enduring love promised to cast their blessings on a tawny-haired, green-eyed bride.

* * *

When the ale and food had disappeared except for the final crumbs, and the tenants could find no more excuse for lingering, there was much whispering behind the screen that led from the kitchens. Master Foxton eventually emerged with due dignity and a silence fell as at a prearranged signal.

The Steward, solemn and seemly, made a short speech of congratulation, followed by a spatter of polite applause. And then, with a grave smile, he raised a hand. ‘We thought to give our new lord a gift on the occasion of his marriage,’ he announced.

Robert staggered out from behind the screen with a log basket, covered with a cloth. He placed it on the floor before Master Foxton’s feet, where it began to rock unsteadily.

‘It is clear to everyone that Lord Edward’s wolfhound has attached herself exclusively to Lady Mansell,’ he continued. He looked round the circle of faces, where smiles were already forming. ‘We though it would be fitting to give our lord one of his own. We are fortunate indeed that Mistress Brierly has a nephew who is employed at Croft Castle. Sir William was very willing to provide us with our needs.’

Foxton bowed to Lord Mansell and walked forward to take the cover from the basket, which immediately rocked on to its side and deposited a small grey creature on to the floor. It rolled and struggled to its feet with gangling energy, to lick the outstretched hand offered by Sir Francis. It was totally ungainly, uncoordinated and entirely charming, its grey pelt still soft with the fur of babyhood. There was no indication here, in the large head and spindly limbs, of the majesty of lithe strength and imposing stature that would one day have the ability to bring down and kill a full-grown wolf.

The puppy rolled on to its back to offer its belly for a rub.

Lord Francis obliged with a laugh. ‘Is this your doing, my lady?’ He glanced up at her, the gleam in his eye acknowledging the success of the gift.

He saw that her face was flushed and she smiled, a glimpse of neat white teeth. Her eyes held the slightest of sparkles as the puppy struggled to lick her lord’s hands again.

‘I claim no involvement—although Master Foxton did ask my opinion.’

‘He is a fine animal.’ Mansell rose to his feet and addressed the ranks of servants and tenants. ‘I shall value him, especially when he learns not to sit on my feet or make puddles on the floor.’ The puppy in its excitement had achieved both.

There was a general laugh and rustle of appreciation.

‘I suppose with Morrighan we should continue the theme of Irish heroes—he had better be Setanta. He will grow into the dignity of his name. And mine, I hope! I would thank you all for your good wishes this day for myself and for my lady, and for your kind thoughts.’

He has a light and easy touch, Honoria thought, her smile lingering. He is nothing like Lord Edward!

Everyone left, even Sir Joshua and Mary finding things to do elsewhere in the castle, finally giving the newly wedded pair a little space together in the vastness of the Hall. The puppy slept by the hearth in utter exhaustion. Morrighan kept her place beside Honoria, ignoring the newcomer as was fitting for something so lacking in gravitas.

It all had a dreamlike quality, Honoria thought. The ceremony, the festivities. They did not know each other. It was purely a business arrangement. And yet … she would hope for more. Surely he would not deal with her as Edward had? Her new lord had never treated her with anything but respect and sensitivity.

Her lord now stood beside her with no one to cushion their seclusion, resplendent in black satin breeches and jacket, collar and cuffs edged with lace. He wore none of the ribbons and decorations so loved by the court gallants, but the deep blue sash holding his doublet in place added an air of elegant celebration. His stark features were softened by the flattering candlelight—and perhaps by the occasion—his grey eyes darker and unfathomable. A frisson of anticipation ran through her veins, but whether pleasurable or edgy she was uncertain.

‘Well, my lady?’

She realised that she had been simply standing, lost in thought. ‘I, too, have a gift for you, my lord.’

‘Does it have teeth?’

She laughed, impulsively, for once. ‘Not as such, but it can bite.’

She walked from him to the fireplace from where she rescued a long slender package, wrapped in fine cloth. She handed it to him. ‘This belonged to my father. I never knew him, or my mother, but this was kept for me. Sir Robert gave it to me on the occasion of my first marriage.’

He took it, carefully unwrapped it, knowing what he would find. Here was a far more serious gift. Although unused and stored for so many years, the steel was bright and sharp, still honed to cut through flesh and bone. The blade was deeply incised down the centre, chased with an intricate leaf decoration, the hilt beautifully curved and weighted and fit easily to his hand. It was a magnificent weapon, worthy of any gentleman. With it was a scabbard of tooled leather with tassels and loops to attach to a belt. It spoke of foreign workmanship at the hands of a master craftsman.

Mansell lifted the sword and made a practice lunge, before examining the quality of the steel, the balance of hilt and blade. ‘It is splendid. I could not expect anything so fine.’ She watched as he ran his fingers, skilled and knowledgeable, over the engraving, the lethal edges.

‘Does it please you? It was always my intention to give it to my husband.’

‘Yet you did not give it to Lord Edward?’ His voice made it just a question rather than a statement.

‘No. I did not.’ She made no effort to excuse or explain but watched him, wary as a young deer.

‘Then I am doubly honoured. Without doubt it pleases me. It will be my pleasure to wear it, my lady.’ Silently he hoped that he would not be called upon to use it, in either hot or cold blood—that Josh’s previous words held no element of premonition.

In a formal gesture of chivalry he took her hand, bowed low over it, then raised her fingers with courtly grace to his lips. She tightened her hold in recognition of his acceptance of the gift and, as he glanced up, he saw her face relax into a smile. It gave her a fragile beauty that touched his heart, causing the faintest brush of desire across the surface of his skin.

‘Your gift is as handsome as your presence, lady.’

He drew her towards him then, his arm encircling her waist. Before she could resist or retreat, he sealed the new vows that they had made, his mouth on hers. He felt the nerves under her skin flutter, so kept it light and unthreatening, the merest promise of possession. But, unlike the salute in church her lips were now warm and softened under his caress. When he released her she remained standing within his arms, lips parted, an expression of surprised pleasure in her face. He brushed his fingers over her hair where it curled at her temple, satisfied with the outcome.

‘Go up,’ he said softly. ‘I will come to you.’

Later he opened the door that connected his bedchamber with hers, entered and closed it quietly behind him. She was sitting in bed against a bank of pillows, waiting for him. A fire still burned so the air was warm and fragrant with the distinctive scent of apple wood and a candle flickered at her elbow. She held a book, open, before her on the coverlet, yet he had the distinct impression that she had not been reading.

Her fine ringlets had been brushed out so that her hair curled against her neck and on to the white linen of her shift, gleaming more gold than brown in the candlelight. Her face was drained of colour again and she clutched the leather binding with rigid fingers. He drew in a breath. She looked anything but at ease, but then what did he expect? Things should improve between them as they came to know each other better. And he had sufficient confidence in his lovemaking to believe that he could indulge her with a degree of pleasure and contentment. He smiled a little. His expertise had never been questioned in the past. If only she did not watch him with such frightened eyes, as a terrified mouse would wait for the descent of a circling falcon.

Making no move further into the room, he remained with his back to the door, trying for lightness to diffuse the nerve-searing tension. ‘Where is she?’

‘My lord?’ The voice from the bed was a whisper of nerves.

‘Morrighan! If she is under the bed, you spend the night without me. I value my life.’

‘She … she is in the kitchens. Master Foxton took her. And the puppy.’ Honoria’s lips felt stiff and bloodless. She could not have smiled, no matter what the enticement.

Mansell saw this with a touch of unease. Because there was nothing to be gained in prolonging the agony for her, he strode to the bed, and in a succession of swift movements doused the candle, shrugged out of his robe and turned back the bed covers.

He is nothing like his cousin, she told herself, reassured herself, as the firelight played over the planes and angles of his body. Such broad shoulders, firm flesh, smoothly muscled. She closed her eyes briefly in an anguish of anticipation. Do not think of Edward now! Surely it will not be the same. Don’t think of his cruel words. His unwashed, greasy hands, grasping and demanding. His soft, grey flesh. Don’t think of …

She felt the bed give with Mansell’s weight and then the warm proximity of his body as he stretched beside her, steeling herself to remain still, to resist flinching at his touch.

‘Honoria?’

‘Yes.’

‘It will not be so bad, you know.’ He felt the hideous tension surround them in a thick cloud, suffocating with her fear. She trembled with the force of it as his naked arm, hard and corded with sinew, made contact with hers in the slightest of movements.

‘I know,’ she managed to croak. But she didn’t!

He immediately took the initiative and smoothed his fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her temples. With gentle fingers he touched her face, a fleeting caress of the skin, then following their path from temple to jaw with his lips. Her mouth was soft when he kissed her, the lightest of brushes, mouth against mouth. But then he felt her pulse begin to beat in her throat when he kissed his way along the line from jaw to delicate shoulder, when he paused to press his lips to the very spot where her blood pounded. She lay beneath his touch as if, apart from that one pulse, turned to stone.

She was not a virgin, he thought. She had shared a marriage bed. So why was she so tense? He had hardly touched her.

He persisted as slowly and carefully as he could. It was merely a matter of familiarity. He let his hands smooth down over her body to push away her linen chemise to expose her shoulders to his touch. When his palm closed over a firm breast, lightly moulding so as not to startle her, he felt her gasp and hold her breath.

He continued, gently, stroking, touching, caressing, exploring the curve of her breast to the delicacy of her ribcage and the flowing indentation of her waist. She was lovely. Her skin was as pleasurable to the touch as the most costly satin. He felt his blood begin to heat with arousal and his body hardened in anticipation. It might be true that he did not know her, but he had no difficulty in responding to her pure femininity. But he must go slowly. He gritted his teeth. When he allowed his fingers to trail across the soft skin of her belly and smooth over the roundness of her hip, he felt her catch her breath again, almost on a sob.

His mouth returned to hers, this time with possessive demand, encouraging her lips to part to allow his tongue to slide over the soft inner flesh of her lips, as soft and smooth as silk. She stiffened, every muscle in her body tensed, silently resisting, as he teased a nipple between his fingers.

And he realised that her flesh had chilled, her skin had become clammy as her blood drained, her responses withdrawn from what she saw as a violation. He could no longer pretend that she saw it in any other way. But why? He had deliberately gentled and slowed his desire to take her. By no stretch of the imagination had he attempted to ravish her or treat her with less than utmost consideration for a new bride.

On a deep breath, he stopped, lifted his hands and raised his head to look down at her face below him in the shadows. He could not be other than stunned at what he saw, at the stark fear momentarily in her wide eyes. She was not fighting him, not physically resisting, but she feared him and her whole body was rigid, totally unresponsive to his attempts to arouse and seduce.

He rolled away from her to sit up in concern and some exasperation. He kept his voice low, but she could not mistake the edge in it. ‘I have never, to my knowledge, been guilty of forcing a woman against her will. I do not relish the prospect of starting with my wife!’

This time there was definitely a sob in response to his words.

‘And I thought I had some skill in bringing pleasure to a woman.’

At that she covered her face with her hands. Panic choked her, filled her lungs like smoke. Her breathing became shallow and difficult. To her horror, against all her hopes, she had to accept the truth of it, that Lord Edward had been right after all. She was incapable of attracting a man and an abject failure at bringing pleasure to him as a wife should. It was all her fault. And her new lord was about to reject her as assuredly as Edward had done. He would not be as cruel as Edward, could not be, but he certainly showed no inclination to pursue the consummation of their marriage in the face of her own frozen despair.

Mansell cast aside the covers and stood beside the bed, hands on hips, to survey her with a frown. Whatever the problem, she was clearly terrified. Acting on instinct, he seized the coverlet and stripped it away. ‘Honoria …’

A whimper issued from the bed. If it was not all so distressing, he would have laughed at this extreme reaction to his lovemaking. But there was nothing amusing here; he could neither force her nor ignore her distress and walk away.

He leaned over the bed, picked her up in his strong arms as if she weighed nothing, wrapped her in the coverlet with deft movements as if she were a child, and carried her to the settle by the fire. She was too surprised to protest other than a squeak of shock. He placed her there while he stirred the flames and recovered his own robe. Then he returned and sat beside her, sensing the tiniest of movements as she would have pulled away from him. She was watching him, aware of his every movement, every gesture, eyes dry and strained. He knew that if she had been able, she would have fled the room.

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, a gesture that she had come to recognise. She flinched again. ‘This is no good!’

Without warning he scooped her up again and settled her on his lap, imprisoning her within the circle of his arms as, with gentle fingers, he pushed her head down to rest upon his shoulder.

‘There.’ He stroked her hair a little. ‘There is nothing to concern you now. I shall not do anything you do not wish.’

Silence settled, except for the crackle of the fire, as he continued to smooth his hand over her hair. He was aware of her fingers clutching at the satin collar of his robe in a vice-like grip, but he made no comment. Simply sat and held and waited. Gradually her breathing calmed and she relaxed, sufficient for her to release her grasp and rest against him.

‘Now.’ He kept his voice low. ‘Talk to me, Honoria. Will you tell me why you are so distressed? Do you trust me enough to tell me?’

She said nothing, but he felt the merest nod of her head against his throat.

‘Did my cousin … did Edward rape you?’

‘No.’ The answer was immediate. It came as a wail of anguish.

‘Then what happened? Things can never be so bad that they cannot be put right. Talk to me, Honoria.’

Without thought he turned his face against her hair in an unconscious caress and pressed his lips to her temple in the softest of kisses. Yet it was her undoing. All the tears, all the anxieties and self-doubt, the horror, the sleepless nights, dammed up over the past weeks, overflowed and washed through her in response to that one innocent gesture of kindness. Her breath caught again and again and she could do nothing to prevent the harsh sobs that shook her frame, tears streaming down her face. In the end she gave up trying to control them and simply wept.

All he could do was hold her. She was beyond any comforting words—and he did not know what to say to ease such emotion. So he held her. He murmured foolish words for their sound rather than their content and continued to stroke her hair, her arms, her back, whilst the emotion tore her in two. His heart ached for her. Who would have believed that her outward composure could hide such pain and anguish?

Minutes ticked by. Gradually her sobs lessened. A hiccup, a sniffle. She lay exhausted and drained against his chest and he was content to allow it to be so for a little while. When he was finally sure that her tears were gone, he used the corner of the coverlet to wipe her eyes. She resisted at first, turning her face against his shoulder, intent on hiding the worst of the ravages from his scrutiny. What would he think of her? But he would not allow it and, with a hand under her chin, lifted her face to the light.

‘Talk to me, Honoria.’

But she did not know where to begin.

‘Then I will ask the questions and you try to answer. Let us see how far we can get.’ He had no intention of allowing her to hide from him. ‘You said that Edward did not force you.’ A flash of warning, of illumination, struck him here. ‘Did Edward … was he able to consummate the marriage?’

She shook her head, hiding her face.

‘Are you still virgin?’

She heard the amazement in his voice and was ashamed. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Did he not try? Was it his ill health that prevented him?’

‘He tried!’ The words now poured out, as had the tears. ‘Every night.’ She shuddered with disgust and fear as the memories rushed back. ‘Again and again.’

‘My poor child,’ he murmured.

‘I am not a child!’ Anger and despair mingled in a deadly mix. ‘He wanted an heir, he said. Before he died. That was the only reason for our marriage … for his spending so much money. He tried so often but he was unable … I could not bear it. I know that marriage means obedience to one’s husband … but I could not bear it. He was so …’ She could not find the words.

‘I understand.’

‘Do you? How could you?’ Now she found that she could not stop, even when she would have pressed her fingers against her mouth to hold back the expression of her worst memories. ‘He was so gross, so fat and unwashed. His body was covered with thick hair. And … his hands were damp and … slimy, with blackened fingernails. And he touched me …’ She pressed her hand to her stomach to ward off the wave of nausea. ‘He prodded and groped, squeezing and pinching. I hated it. How could I be expected to find any wifely pleasure in that? How could I ever accept such indignities?’

‘No.’ He pressed his lips together, fighting to contain the anger that built within him as he visualised the picture which Honoria so clearly, so vividly painted, even though he suspected that she had kept the worst from him. ‘I don’t suppose you could.’

‘And he was unable. He blamed me. He said that I was cold and unfeeling—a frigid wife—and I was. He said that it was all my fault—that I had robbed him of his manhood and deserved to be punished.’ She shivered against him, but there was no longer the threat of tears.

‘Did he ever harm you?’ He deliberately kept his voice calm.

‘No. He never struck me. But with words, with the lash of those, he could destroy me. He said that he had been tricked into the marriage—and that I was not woman enough to entice him or pleasure him. I was a failure. I could not fulfil my part of the marriage settlement.’ She was quiet for a moment. Then, ‘I must disgust you.’

‘Honoria …’ What on earth were the right words to say to her? In the end he went for simplicity. ‘My dear girl, you could never disgust me. You were not a failure.’ Now he understood the whole tragic tale. A gross old man, intent on getting an heir on his new wife in the short time left to him. Without sensitivity or finesse, rendered impotent by illness and old age. He had put all the blame for his failure on to her slight shoulders and she lacked the experience to determine the truth of it. ‘It was not your fault. And you have to realise that it does not have to be like that between a man and a woman. There can be delight and warmth … and trust.’

‘Trust? I find it impossible to believe that. And as for delight …’ She shuddered against him.

His lordship sighed. Now was not the time to convince her otherwise. The emotional upheaval had taken its toll and she leaned against him, her earlier fears forgotten, but yet drained and exhausted.

‘I am afraid of failing again.’ And afraid that you will measure me unfavourably against Katherine.

Those few words that she dared to utter spoke volumes. He held her close to rub his cheek against her hair.

‘You will not fail again. I will show you,’ he reassured her softly. ‘But not now, not tonight. You need to rest.’

Mansell stood and lifted her, without protest, and carried her back to the high bed. There he settled her under the covers and, before she could speak, stretched beside her, pulling her firmly into his arms.

‘Don’t fight me again,’ he murmured as he felt her muscles tense once more.

‘Would it not be better to … to finish it quickly? I am sure that you are not unable.’ He heard the depth of bitter humiliation in her voice. His reassurance had apparently not found its mark.

‘No.’ The ghost of a laugh shook him. ‘I am not unable. But it would definitely not be better to finish it quickly! When I do take you, when I make you truly my wife and you bear my weight, you will not be exhausted and terrified and as responsive as a January icicle.’

‘And if I cannot?’ He detected the breath of hysteria once more. ‘What if Edward was right? What if I did cause his failure?’

His response was to take her face in his two hands and force her to look at him ‘Look at me, Honoria. And listen well. You did not cause Edward’s inability to complete the marriage. How could you? You are lovely. He must have been sick indeed not to respond to you. You are very feminine. A man would dream of holding and … and loving a woman like you. You did not exactly encourage me, did you, but I would have had no difficulty in taking you, in spite of it.’ No difficulty at all, he thought, still aware of his hard arousal. It promised to be a long night! ‘Indeed, the difficulty was in leaving you. Do you understand?’

She looked at him for a long moment, considering his words carefully, and then nodded.

‘Well, then.’ He tucked her against his side, taking one of her hands in his, arranging the pillows and covers for their comfort. ‘Are you comfortable?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then go to sleep. You are quite safe. And Edward, may he rot in Hell, cannot touch you ever again.’

Her body gradually relaxed, minute by minute, against his as the warmth and release from fear slowly spread through her veins, her breathing softening, her muscles loosening. Her hand finally rested on his chest, fingers curled and open. He felt her slide into sleep.

What a terrible burden she had carried with no one to help her. He rested his chin against her hair. Only a crisis had forced her into confiding in him. Otherwise, he knew with a certainty, she would have remained silent, disguising her fears behind a wall of competency and self-possession. He wondered fleetingly if she had spoken to Mary about it—and decided not. She would find it difficult to open her thoughts to anyone on such a short acquaintance. He hoped indeed that Edward would suffer the torments of the abyss for his cruel, thoughtless treatment of her. He moved his arm slightly and cushioned her head more securely on his shoulder. She did not stir.

It would take considerable care and patience on his part to build a relationship with her, to repair the damage so wilfully caused. He turned his face against the soft curls. So soft, so vibrant now that it was no longer confined. He would care for her. With tenderness and sympathetic handling they would find a way together. It surprised him how much he wanted to soothe and comfort. After all, he had little experience of either with an unwilling woman.

He stayed awake a long time, watching the flickering shadows as the fire finally died, assailed by doubts over the momentous step he had taken that day and the responsibilities that it thrust at him. And yet, whatever the future might hold, he could not be sorry that he had taken her as his wife.

It was still very early when he woke. The dull grey of March daylight was hardly touching the sky or chasing the shadows in the room. The fire had died to ash long since so the air was chill.

Mansell had not intended to remain in her bed through the night, but only until Honoria had fallen deeply asleep. Then he would return to his own bedchamber. But he had fallen asleep himself, holding her within the protection of his arms, hopefully reassuring her that his proximity was not to be the horror she feared. And when he had stirred in the night he had been far too comfortable to disturb himself or his sleeping wife. He had shared more than one bed over the years, before and even after his marriage to Katherine, when the demands of his body and the hideous desolation of loss had driven him to find comfort in soft and willing arms. But it was the first time, he mused, that he had ever spent such a night so chastely. He grinned wryly in the dark. His reputation would indeed suffer if it were known that his wife remained a virgin still. But, after all, the circumstances had been exceptional.

The bed was warm and comfortable, the pillows soft, keeping the cool air at bay. He found that he had no desire to leave it. He turned on his side towards Honoria. She too was more than enticing. In sleep she had curled against him, stripped of the anxieties and sharp fear that had reduced her to such a storm of emotions on the previous night. Her skin was now warm under his fingertips, cheeks and lips flushed with pink, her breathing easy, her face in sleep relaxed and calm, her hair tumbled on the pillow.

He looked at her in the pearling light. Such soft lips, curving gently at the corners as if her dreams were full of delight. What was she dreaming? He would like those lips to curve in just that manner for him, he decided, as a breath of jealous possession brushed his skin, jolting him in its intensity. He leaned over to brush those tempting lips with his own. It was impossible to resist.

She sighed a little, between dreaming and waking, curling her fingers against his chest.

What better time? Her defences were down, easy to breach, her muscles lax and her skin warm and pliant. What better opportunity to show her a range of pleasures at the hands of an experienced lover and undo the terrible damage of Edward’s actions and words? It would please him to allay her fears for good. He was already urgently hard, surprised by the sudden desire to bury himself in her. Or perhaps not surprised at all. She was so very appealing.

Honoria surfaced from the depths of sleep to an overwhelming sensation of well-being. She had slept through the night, waking to a quiet contentment, for the first time since the day of her disastrous marriage to Lord Edward. And then there was that exquisitely gentle touch on her face, her lips, her hair. Light as the fluttering of a moth seeking a flame. She sighed, frowned a little at the unexpected sensation. And instantly remembered.

Mansell.

Everything flooded back. Her eyes opened, wide in consternation. Her body would have tensed as her tortured mind again took control, her hands raised to push against him, to resist, but yet she felt so warm and relaxed. She listened to the words being whispered against her ear and found herself accepting them.

‘Lie still. You are in no danger.’

It was true.

‘Let me kiss you. Touch you.’

She found her lips opening of their own accord under the pressure of his. And when his hands smoothed along her shoulders and down to cup her breasts she shivered, but not with fear.

She sighed against him. Responding shyly, hesitantly at first, when his tongue traced the outline of her lips before pushing between them. Nerve endings tingled as she allowed him entry, eyes flickering open again in astonished pleasure. Skin warming, she stretched her body under his hands, unaware of the overt invitation to him, gasping with the shock of arousal when her nipples tightened under the light caress of his fingers. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. When he raised his head to look at her in the growing light she lifted her arms to wind them around his neck and twist her fingers into the weight of his hair. She smiled at him, a delightful curve of her lips as welcoming as any he could have wished for.