Читать книгу Saved By Scandal's Heir - Janice Preston, Janice Preston - Страница 13

Chapter Six

Harriet could feel Benedict’s gaze boring into her as she paused on the threshold, giving her eyes time to adjust to the gloom inside the tower.

‘This is the last place I expected to see you.’

Benedict spoke the words, but they could as easily have been spoken by her. The memories evoked by this place swirled around her, almost a physical presence. Did he feel them, too? Was his mind also bursting with images from the past? This had been their trysting place: the place where they could be alone, out of sight of prying eyes or wagging tongues to cry scandal.

Silly, trusting girl—thinking she was in control of her life when, in reality, all control lay with others. See where her trust had led her—to marriage with a man who disgusted her, and to unimaginable heartbreak as a consequence of his temper. She had vowed, after Brierley’s death, that she would never pass control over her life to another man.

‘I am not one to sit in idleness. I felt in need of fresh air and exercise, after being cooped up indoors yesterday.’ Harriet strolled with as much nonchalance as she could muster into the centre of the room. ‘And why should I not visit here? It was on my walk and I was curious to see if there were any changes.’

He moved too, giving Harriet a wide berth as he crossed to gaze out of the window. ‘For a medieval castle, it is in remarkably good repair,’ he said, his tone light and unconcerned. ‘But, then, it is only several decades old rather than several centuries.’

It had been a source of wonder and imagination when they were children and, with Sir Malcolm so rarely at home, they had played at knights and maidens and dragons and swordfights with other local children. Gradually, though, the other village children visited less and less frequently as the reality of their lives—the need to supplement their parents’ income by working—had intruded. But Benedict and Harriet had continued to meet here. And their play had, in time, taken a serious turn.

Her head had been full of love; his, full of lust. It was the way of men. She knew that now.

‘I am pleased Sir Malcolm has maintained the estate, despite his...’ She hesitated. It was not her place to criticise his kinsman.

‘Despite his notorious ways? I have scant respect for Malcolm, as you know, but he was no spendthrift. His proclivities veered more towards the flesh than gambling.’

Harriet suppressed her shudder. Her late husband had been cast from the same mould.

‘As you are here, it would be a waste not to go upstairs and admire the view.’ Benedict stood aside, indicating the studded door that led to the spiral stairs. The tower was cylindrical, built over four floors, and the view from the top, she remembered, was spectacular.

She said nothing, merely inclined her head, and walked past him to the door. It opened easily. Whoever cared for the estate must take their work seriously, to include greasing the hinges to a door in a folly that served no purpose. She paused.

‘I understood you to be in a meeting with Sir Malcolm’s agent,’ she said.

He huffed a laugh. ‘And so you thought yourself safe from encountering me on your walk? I regret disappointing you, my lady, but I, too, felt in dire need of a good dose of cleansing fresh air. Do you need any assistance on the stairs?’

‘Thank you, no.’

Harriet lifted her skirts high and climbed the stone stairs to the top floor. Here there were wooden benches, but she resisted the urge to sit and catch her breath. She would continue up to the battlements, admire the view over the Kent countryside and then be on her way.

Being here at the folly brought all those memories flooding back to Harriet. Knowing he still wielded that kind of power over her emotions and her body—despite the best efforts of her brain to stay in control—had kept her awake half the night. She had been oh-so-tempted by him. His lovemaking in their youth had been unpractised, as had hers. Now he, like she, would possess a certain skill. She wondered again how it might feel to lie with him, but did not dwell on the thought. It would surely bring regret. He had blood on his hands. Innocent blood. No matter how she might desire him, she could never forgive him.

She gazed across the landscape, dazzling in the sunlight—seeing it, but barely paying it the attention it deserved, all her senses straining for an awareness of Benedict’s whereabouts. After several tense minutes she heard the door that led onto the roof open. She had no need to look to know that Benedict had followed her: the rising hairs on her nape confirmed his presence, and the gooseflesh that skittered across her arms wasn’t purely caused by the chill wind. She sensed the gap between them narrowing, until she could hear the quiet sound of his breathing and she could feel the heat of his body warming the air between them and she could smell...him. Still familiar, after all this time.

She swallowed. A maelstrom of emotions buffeted her this way and that but she strove to stay calm, to stay in control.

‘It is as beautiful as I remember,’ she said. ‘I count it as fortunate the weather is so good today—it has afforded me the opportunity to see the wonder of the countryside again.’ She hugged her cloak around her as a gust of wind attempted to tear it open.

‘It is a spectacular sight,’ Benedict said, his deep voice close by her ear, raising another shiver. ‘But it is very cold up here. Come, you must not catch a chill, or you will be forced to endure even more of my company.’

She could hear the effort he put into that light-hearted remark. His tone did not quite ring true and it forced her—for the first time—to consider how her presence was affecting him. Did he feel guilt over his betrayal? Was there a pang of conscience over the death of the baby, born too soon, who’d never had the chance to draw breath? Was there any regret—a tiny speck, even if it was well buried? He had not even mentioned the child, seemed uninterested in whether it was alive or dead. Had he wiped his memory clear of the fact she had ever been with child?

Would that she could so easily forget. Her empty arms still ached, as did her heart, at the knowledge that she would never now experience the joy of motherhood, for never again would she risk marrying and placing such power over herself and her body in any man’s hands. And she resented—deeply—the fact that Benedict not only felt no guilt and had experienced none of her grief, but also that he was now poised to become a wealthy powerful man—and marry and have a family—whereas she...she was destined to remain loveless and childless for the rest of her days.

She swung away from the view and sidestepped around Benedict to head for the door but, as on the previous evening, he was there before her.

‘Allow me to go first,’ he said. ‘In case you miss your step.’

At Benedict’s words, an image rose to tempt her: that of her stumbling...of him catching her in his arms...of him lifting her chin and lowering his head. Her heart pounded and her breathing quickened as she took especial care in descending the spiral stairs, clutching with gloved fingers at the thick rope that looped from bracket to bracket all the way down. Back on the ground floor without incident, her breathing eased and her racing heart steadied as she straightened her cloak in readiness for the walk back to the house.

‘Harriet...’

Her name hung in the air.

Slowly, she raised her eyes to his. She could not read his expression in the dim light that filtered through the window, but she did see the muscle leap in his jaw. The air between them crackled with intensity and her pulse responded with a lurch and a gallop. All moisture seemed to have been sucked from her mouth, and she licked at her dry lips as he moved closer. His gaze fastened on her mouth, sending desire sizzling through her. Pure instinct tilted her head, lifting her lips to his.

Aah. The most delicate of touches. Lip to lip...sweet, gentle, almost worshipping. Memories of love and laughter and pure joy. They had been so young. A shared future planned. They had followed the instinctive desires of their youthful bodies. She had felt so secure in his love for her. Before...

Harriet switched her thoughts away from the past and into the present. A kiss. Why should they not? It was just a kiss.

She leaned into him, raising her hands to his shoulders, broad and strong. A man’s body, reminding her he was no longer a youth. A silent sigh for what might have been echoed through her, and tears sprang to her eyes.

He deepened the kiss, his arms coming around her, moulding her to him as his tongue swept into her mouth and tangled with hers. His groan vibrated through her core and she could feel the steady thump of his heart as he tightened his hold, raising her onto her toes. His arousal pressed against her, and anticipation tugged deep inside her. Her own heart thudded in tandem with his as she explored his shoulders and back. She stroked his neck and threaded her fingers through his hair, knocking his hat to the floor. The thought surfaced that her gloves must go but, before she could act on that thought, he changed, urgency taking control.

Her toes barely scraped the floor as he lifted her higher, and backed her against the wall. She couldn’t breathe. Panic mushroomed out of the past, bringing it all back—the pain, the disgust—and she swung her head in denial, wrenching her lips from his, grabbing his hair to jerk his head away. He grunted a protest, seized her wrists and raised her arms, stretching them up, above her head, trapping her between his body and the wall, and tasted her again, invading her with his tongue.

She could not move. She was trapped. A scream built inside. She had learned to submit, but this was not Brierley. He was gone.

Harriet twisted her head to one side. ‘No!’ She panted with the effort not to scream. ‘No!’ Louder. More forceful.

Benedict stilled. Raised his head to look at her with dazed eyes. ‘What...?’

‘Let go of me.’

He released her. Stepped back. Frowned. ‘Why?’

Harriet stared at the blurry floor. Wiped her mouth with a shaking hand. ‘I cannot. I am—’

‘Don’t say you’re sorry,’ he said in a savage voice. ‘I don’t want to hear your excuses.’

He swung away and slammed through the door, crashing it shut behind him, leaving Harriet alone, trembling with the memories that she had tried so hard to put behind her.

* * *

Benedict strode down the hill, away from the tower, his blood pounding with fury and unquenched desire. How weak-willed could a man be? After her rejection—twice—still he had left himself wide open for another blow. His brisk pace did little to assuage the urge to lash out and, as he entered the Home Wood, on the path that led back to the house, he snatched a fallen branch from the ground to slash at last season’s dried-up undergrowth as he passed.

His instinct was to leave. Return to London. Bury himself in his work and his plans for the future or jump on the nearest ship and seek out new adventures. Anything rather than stay here and suffer any more of her games, leading a man on and then freezing him out.

The house came into view. He slammed to a halt. Considered. Then changed direction.

He strode into the barn, then slowed so as not to spook the horses in the stalls. Heads turned enquiringly to watch his progress along the passageway, and he breathed in the familiar, calming smell of horses, leather and hay, pausing to pat one or two gleaming rumps as he passed.

A groom’s head popped out from the end stall. ‘Morning, sir,’ he called. ‘Was you going out?’

‘Yes.’ The question spurred him into a decision. ‘Saddle the bay, will you, Tom?’

A long, fast ride would do him the power of good. It would douse both his temper and his lust and, hopefully, blast away the confusion that had beset him ever since Harriet had reappeared in his life. He swept his hand through his hair, realising he had lost his hat somewhere. No matter—his appearance would make no difference where he was going.

* * *

It was dark before Benedict returned to Tenterfield Court, weary and slightly foxed after an afternoon spent in the Crossways Inn in the village. He left his horse at the stables and walked towards the house, conscious that his steps were beginning to lag. He entered through a side door and met Cooper, the footman, in the passage. He must ask. He had no wish to bump into her unprepared.

‘Where is she?’ Hellfire! That didn’t come out as he intended. ‘Lady Brierley,’ he added. ‘I’m late. Has she eaten?’ It was past the customary time for dinner in the country. With any luck she had already gone upstairs, as keen as him to avoid another encounter.

Cooper frowned. ‘She’s gone, sir. Lord Brierley came and took her off in his carriage.’

Benedict felt himself sway. Must’ve drunk more than I realised. He inched closer to the wall and propped his shoulders against it.

‘When?’

‘Soon after her ladyship came back from her walk, sir. His lordship was already here. He’d had her bags packed all ready, and been up to see Sir Malcolm and then, when her ladyship arrived, he dragged her off to his carriage.’

Dragged? The image unsettled him, but it also raised a hope he didn’t want to feel. ‘Lady Brierley didn’t want to leave?’

‘No, sir. First she said she wouldn’t leave without her maid...’

Ah, of course. Her maid. Janet. She was the cause of Harriet’s reluctance. Stupid to imagine it could be anything else. Benedict shook his head, trying to clear it and order his thoughts.

‘And then,’ Cooper continued, clearly relishing being the one to tell him the story, ‘his lordship said Janet must go, too, and the doctor was here and he said as how she shouldn’t really be moved, and his lordship said he wouldn’t leave her here in this den of...den of...something...’

Iniquity, Benedict thought, his head reeling as his temples began to throb.

‘...so we had to carry Janet downstairs and prop up her leg on cushions and all the while his lordship was looking like thunder—’

‘Had he come to visit Sir Malcolm?’

‘No, sir, but he did go up and pay his respects. He said something about a letter, sir, and more scandal, sir. Just like that. More scandal!’ Cooper paused for breath.

‘And her ladyship was happy to go?’

‘Well, yes and no, I should say, sir.’

Benedict bit down the urge to bark, Get on with it, man. ‘I’m waiting, Cooper.’

‘Well, she seemed happy enough to go, but she wanted to go back to London, she said. Only his lordship wouldn’t budge, even when her ladyship pleaded with him. He said as how she was to come home with him and explain herself properly if she knew what was good for her.’

What was good for her? She’s his stepmother, for God’s sake. What the blazes did he mean by that?

‘And then he said as how he would stop her allowance if she didn’t do what he said.’

‘And so she went with him?’

‘Yes, sir. But she wasn’t happy.’

Benedict told himself it was for the best. He told himself it was a relief, but then why did his throat ache and why had his stomach twisted into knots?

‘Thank you, Cooper. That will be all.’

Benedict levered himself away from the wall and headed towards the back stairs on decidedly unsteady legs.

‘Please inform Sir Malcolm I am unwell and unable to pay him my usual visit. I am going to bed.’ He flung the words over his shoulder at the footman.

‘Her ladyship found your hat, sir.’ Cooper’s words floated up the back stairs after Benedict. ‘Mr Crabtree brushed it and put it away.’

His hat! A vague memory surfaced of Harriet dislodging it during that kiss. Benedict stumbled as he reached the top of the stairs and turned in the direction of his bedchamber. He cursed under his breath, praying he would not meet any other servants in his current state.

Never again would he touch the ale at the Crossways. It was clearly tainted.