The Wrong Bride Page 11

  “No. No, I fainted. Dead away. More than once. It was very like a nightmare,” Winnie said softly, and he had to bend down to hear her. “And then, the next day, he was gone, Master Lance was.”

  “Sir Lance, now,” he corrected.

  Winnie bit her lip again. “May we stop?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. How about something to drink? Let’s go the refreshment marquee.”

  “Alright, I don’t mind.” She shook her head dully. “I don’t care. Anyway, that’s the tale.”

  Collins took her gloved hand and threaded it through his arm. A hundred questions posed themselves in Collin’s brain, but, as a gentleman, he daren’t ask them. Like, was it true that they didn’t sleep with one another? That they lived like brother and sister, and in antagonistic positions? “You’re trembling like a leaf, Winnie.” A prank? A mistaken one? What did she mean by that? Good Lord. How could he ask her anything, after hearing what revealed much but not nearly enough? He brought Winnie a glass of wine and sat with her at a small table in the ill-lit room. A bar was at one side and a table laden with cakes and tarts on the opposite side. “You know I must have questions, Winnie, but damned if I will ask them.” Maybe she would open up to him without prodding.

  “Thank you. I should be most grateful.” She sipped her drink slowly while he leaned forward, trying to divine from her now placid face something to make sense of it all. He waited without more confession, sighed after a time and sat back. All at once she sat up abruptly, her gaze arrested, and Collins turned. It was the woman in red, and with her was Sir Lance. They appeared rapt in each other’s conversation. “Could we sneak out of here somehow?” Collins nodded and stood, hiding Winnie from view. He began to move as Winnie rose and walked behind him allowing him to shield her from view.

  Collins took Winnie outside the whole, odd assemblage of structures. “I have to get my coat.”

  He nodded. “I’ll wait for you.” He watched her enter one of the little enclosures, and he waited, and waited some more, but she never came. He went looking for her. Winnie had vanished.

  He found her walking along the road toward the carriage park. “Winnie! Where are you going?”

  “Home. Your home, Sir Lance.”

  He chuckled as he caught up to her. “So, you heard.” Winnie didn’t say anything. “Does it make a difference to you?” She shook her head. “So why bother mentioning it?” he asked with a shrug.

  “Go away.”

  “No. I’ll take you home.” She sighed and they went along side by side but not together to where their carriage was stationed. Glumly, Winnie sat in the carriage by herself until they were home. While Lance went to let loose the horses and put the carriage away, Winnie went into the kitchen, heading straight for the stove still warm from left-over coals. She stirred them, added more fuel and began making tea. After closing the door, Lance rubbed his hands together to warm then. “Turning cold.”

  Winnie looked up and watched as he sat down at table. “Yes. It won’t be long before the snow flies.”

  Lance saw the happy look that slowly crossed her face. “What is it?”

  Winnie shrugged. “It’s nothing, just that the first snow is so pristine and pure, one hates to mar its surface by walking on it. It covers the earth like a beautiful, soft blanket, and the quiet is so remarkable one doesn’t want to breathe, just enjoy the moment.” She stopped and swallowed. “How I do go on,” she said, her voice brisk and dismissive. Winnie poured tea into cups and set one in front of Lance. “Would you like a lemon tart?” Lance shook his head. She brought the little porcelain cream pitcher from the cold pantry and added some of it along with beaten sugar to her tea, sat and stirred, then raised the cup to her lips and began sipping delicately.

  Minutes ticked by with neither of them speaking. “So,” Lance began, “is the fellow you danced with your lover?”

  The question disturbing the silence was jarring, bringing Winnie to sharp life. “What? Dr. Collins? Howard Collins?” The idea was so preposterous, she laughed out loud, and Lance felt the ends of his mouth twitch in response. “No, of course not. It’s ridiculous to even think it.”

  “The two of you seemed quite close in that little drinks room.” So, he’d seen her there, had he?

  Her chin rose. “And you seemed bedazzled by your own companion.” There, she’d said what she was thinking for once.

  Lance chuckled. “The lady can be quite beguiling, I must admit. Very friendly and rather inviting.”

  “It’s a wonder she didn’t freeze, her gown was so revealing and ‘inviting’,” Winnie said tartly. Lance stared at her for a moment before throwing back his head and laughing. It made Winnie angry and she drank the rest of her tea quickly and rose.

  Lance sat up. “Winnie, if you won’t mind, stay a moment. I would like to know exactly what happened that night you say we, I, abducted you and carried you off. To tell you the truth, I’ve no real recollection of it beyond what you’ve told me, and Barnaby, too, and I’ve made that the memory, but it’s full of shadows and incomplete. I would like to have the full story, or what you can tell me from your viewpoint.”

  Winnie sat down. “My own memory can’t fill in all the pages, either. You see, I fainted a number of times.” Maybe his not knowing was one of the reasons he went walking in his sleep. No, the event was obviously not important enough to him if he couldn’t remember. But Winnie would do whatever she could to help at least that part of it, Though, since he hadn’t walked in his sleep for a couple of weeks, maybe he was over the affliction. “But I will tell you what I remember; it’s still as vivid in my mind as when it happened.” She began. “I had left my own room to go to Miranda’s to spend the night. She’d left with Mother and Father for the Munsters, the family Miranda was going to marry into. Her room was so much nicer than mine, but that was usual. Miranda had the best of nearly everything, and I could never figure out why.” She realized she was reliving old grievances that time had almost erased. “Though it doesn’t matter anymore.” She went on with the story, the strange noises in the house that Winnie attributed to her heightened nerves from being nearly alone in the house. The first time she fainted, something she’d never done before or since that dreadful night, she thought might be due to the fact that she was wrapped so tightly in the bedclothes. Winnie mentioned the blue damask cover.

  “The one on my bed now?” Winnie nodded and began reciting again. Reliving it and looking off into space, she became alone and didn’t see Lance. She spoke a long time, her voice even, unchanging. When done and coming to the present, seeing Lance, whose face was red, his mouth tight, she blinked and frowned.

  “You’re laughing at me!” she accused bitterly.

  Lance let out the gust of air he was holding in, trying desperately not to burst with suppressed laughter. But he couldn’t help it. He stood as she rose and rushed toward him, her small, balled fists ready to pummel his wide chest. He was laughing at her, he was! How dare he! “Now, Winnie. It’s just that you’re such a good storyteller, and you describe it all so perfectly.” And, it was funny!

  “I thought I was going to die!” she wailed. “Oh, the pain was so great, so awful.” Her clenched hands beat on his chest. He grabbed her hands and crossed her arms and wound them around her sides, holding her there, her face propelled into his hard front.

  Her own arms imprisoning her, Winnie sobbed. “But you didn’t die, Winnie,” he said in a low voice, almost whispering. “You didn’t. You thrived instead. And I regret the pain I’ve caused you, though there is nothing I can do about it now.” His nose inches from her fragrant hair, he discovered the source of the same scent that had been on his cover and pillows, and now was so faint on them he couldn’t any longer discern the sweet, light perfume. Lance closed his eyes and let the aroma fill his head. Then, slowly, he released her. How many times he had longed over the years to hold a girl, any girl, and he had at times, but this was different. This girl was different, not just any girl. She was his wife, but not
his wife. “Poor Winnie.” She looked up at him, her eyes bright and shining with unshed tears, the wing-shaped brown brows dipped in frustration, the pink mouth open and trembling with emotion. His head bent, and she whimpered as his lips settled over hers, stilling their tremors, and he heard the little noise that came from her and deepened the kiss. Lance could feel the struggles, the feeble ones she made with her hands and the fight going on inside her not to give in. Finally, he let go and pushed against her. She stumbled and almost fell into the chair that was at the end of the table.

  “I’ve gone through Hell, Winnie, and I’ve come back. From impossible heat and throat-parching dust that stuck to my sweat, and devilish freezing weather that ate at my skin, froze my fingers and toes to numbness ‘til I wondered if they wouldn’t break off. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have laughed at you, but it’s been a long time since I’ve felt like enjoying a joke. We were young fools, Jaren and I, but you’re none the worse for what happened to you. I could tell you tales that would shrivel your soul to hear, of what happened to some of the women, ours and theirs, and children, too. You’ve done well for my house, and I appreciate it all. But you’ve had a place to lay your head, food for the table, and friends about you. Stop living on the hatred for me you’ve nursed through the years and give me leave to come to terms with all the horrid things I’ve had to do to stay alive, Winnie! I killed a man for his coat, a prisoner near death, but still…. I stole food from people who hadn’t much more to eat than I who had nothing. I’ve lain with women who were glad to have the bit of food I would exchange for the moment of warmth and humanity, the relief I could get from coupling. Dear God, the things I did, the things we all did in moments of rage and blood frenzy and abject despair. Dear God!” He tore away from her and left the kitchen with Winnie staggered and staring at the space he left behind.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Winnie sat at table a long time. She hated Lance for pointing out the shallowness of her wounded feelings and nursing them through the years. She hated him because he was right about her injuries as measured against the devastating hurts others had suffered. But to minimize her own pain so thoroughly and not show a shed of sympathy—it hurt. Her cup filled again, she sat thinking. Their mouser jumped on the table and lifted a paw to scratch Winnie’s hand gently, his way of begging attention. Winnie smiled and began stroking the grey and black steaked cat. Though Winnie saw nothing funny about her predicament as Lance did, she would try to unbend, at least try to forgive. But forget? Never! The cat meowed and slunk under Winnie’s hand, lying back on the table, back legs extended, front paws curled forward. “You’re a pest, you are.” Winnie began drawing her fingers through the cat’s stomach fur and heard instant, deep purring. “If only all our problems could be solved so easily.”

  But the outpouring of emotion from Lance couldn’t fail to shake her. He hadn’t asked for shared feeling, but a flood of it rose in Winnie. If ever a one had been punished for his transgressions, it was Lance. Maybe it was time to give up her bitterness, and even though he hadn’t paid reparations to her, what he’d gone through would count to help wipe away the past. When it came time to part, though she and Lance didn’t love each other, didn’t even like each other, there could be a sort of amity between them, or at least a truce.

  If only he hadn’t kissed her. By now, Winnie was familiar with his lips and found a kiss from them very pleasant and more, especially this last most stimulating one that left her breathless and on the cusp of surrender. She pushed away the idle thoughts with a sigh. The tea in the cup was cold, the remnant in the pot was cold. Winnie rose and started for the stairway. The others wouldn’t be home until after daybreak and would sleep in. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

  Upstairs, Winnie took off her dress and held it aloft. It was beautiful and a thing she had helped create. Besides sewing the sequins on, she had taken a hand to its design, earning her praise from the dressmaker in town. Perhaps that might be her occupation when she left here, to work as a seamstress, or even, with the recovery of her dowry and other funds, she might open a shop of her own. That was a good idea, one to pursue once she had her wits about her after a good night’s sleep. She yawned and slipped into the flimsy nightshift, raising eyes to look at the sheer nightdress and its matching robe that hung on the wall. Tomorrow, they would come down. Once something to assuage her wounded pride, having them meant less to her for some reason. She might even save them, she mused, laughing at herself, to display at her own shop eventually.

  After pulling pins and then finger-combing her hair and braiding it loosely, Winnie pulled back the covers, plumped pillows one last time, blew out the lamp, and crawled into bed. Adjusting herself, twisting around, Winnie turned to face the open doorway, and there was Lance! “Oh! Lance!” At once she sat up. Appearing unsure, he scratched his head. “Are you troubled again, Lance?” With a tired sigh, Winnie rose from bed and stepped across her room to take his arm. He seemed startled by the gesture but said nothing. “It’s alright,” she cooed, “you’re just a bit lost. Let’s find our way back to bed, shall we?”

  “What?” he asked, voice slurring.

  “We’re taking you back to bed, Lance,” Winnie replied soothingly. “It’s too late to be wandering about the house. You might hurt yourself. Doctor said you’re troubled, that’s all.” She chuckled. “Listen to me blathering on, as if you knew what is going on.” Working her way down the hall and into Lance’s room, the tumbled cover and sheets on the bed were evidence he’d had trouble sleeping. “Just allow me to fix this…” Winnie let go of Lance and straightened the bedclothes and took hold of him again, urging him into bed. “Poor fellow,” she crooned, coaxing him to lie down, running a cool hand over his warm brow. “Now, isn’t that just the thing?” He lay on the pillow with a sigh and turned his face away, then back, his eyes closed against the moonlight streaming in the room.

  Her voice still soft as down, “There, that wasn’t so terrible,” she said. Winnie stepped back, clasping her hands together at the top of her chest, pleased with herself. She turned to go when suddenly her wrist was snatched and she stopped. “Oh! Well, goo…goodnight, Lance,” she murmured, trying to gently ease away his hand. But he held on and tugged. Winnie was bewildered. He’d seemed so quiescent and docile before. “You must let me go, dear Lance.” She tried a soft laugh, but it came out wrong and sounded awkward. “I need my beauty sleep.”

  Lance was implacable, pulling her insistently toward the bed. As soon as she was about to disentangle herself from one grip of his, he had bound her with another, and she was drawn to and down on the bed. Winnie gave up. Perhaps if she didn’t fight him or startle him, which she had been warned not to do, he would leave her alone after a time. She climbed into the large bed, her bed at one time she considered with a little rise of pique, and lay down, putting some distance between them, heard the sigh which gave her hope that he would settle down and sleep. She was still as a stone, and after a couple of minutes, Winnie exhaled the quietest little bit of breath. Good, he had done nothing. Now, if she could only, with utmost care, slip out of bed and back to her own, she would be free. All at once, he felt his hand on her breast and tried not to gasp. His thumb was tracing her nipple through the nightshift and she heard her breathing accelerate. “No, dear Lance, you mustn’t,” she whispered. “it’s time to sleep now.” His hand stilled. Winnie closed her eyes, swallowed, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was time for her to make a move. She would be careful, but she couldn’t stay. As quickly as the idea came to mind, she felt his hand on her thigh, moving up. Winnie felt the tingling of the flesh where he touched and knew she must hurry, scooting further away until she was on the edge of the bed, rising up, but he was there, too, nearly on top of her, his movement so sudden and unexpected she couldn’t think. He turned away the small hands that feebly pushed against his chest, further brushed away the weak resistance, his mouth on her throat, exciting her skin there and nearly making her breathless. Then his mouth crossed her cheek
and kissed her lips; she heard herself moan, steeling herself to not fight him for fear of startling him but trembling against the treason of her flesh, her limbs beginning to feel listless, and weak. Oh, why had he this effect on her? His lips were seeking and kissing everywhere, her mouth, her cheeks, the lobes of her ears, and Winnie didn’t know what to do, was trying desperately not to respond, but it was hopeless. After gently massaging her breasts, his hand slipped down to where it had been before, only now he was tracing her thigh up into her most private part and kneading so carefully her mound and the tender pink flesh below. She lay deathly still, heart thundering, as he rose above her, urging her legs apart with light touches and then she felt his hard shaft teasing her opening and was no longer in control, shuddering as he entered. She felt the slightest pain and stiffened, but just as quickly it went away. Quiet for a brief moment, he began to move cautiously. Winnie couldn’t help herself. It was as if her hips had a life of their own, and they began to move, to rise, to reach for something, she didn’t know what until she found it in glorious release. Her arms wound around him, her midsection pulsing, and held on tight as she was lifted to another place, breathing shallows gasps into his chest. He moved more quickly now, his hard member going deeper into the hot, moist valley of her essence. He stretched as far as he could, relaxed, then repeated the movement over again until there was one final surge during which he cried out as if he were in pain, and then he lay still. Struggling for breath and moaning, he slowly slipped away and lay on his pillow, heart wildly beating in his chest. Little by little, his breathing slowed, and he was quiet. For a short space of time Winnie lay beside him, shocked, her mind dazed, her body wonderfully tired, her midsection at peace but forever imprinting on her the memory of their congress.

  With as little noise and as much speed as Winnie was capable of, she rose and stumbled hurriedly from the room down the hall into her own. With shaking hands, she washed herself in cold water, and, her mind unclear and unfocused, she tumbled into bed and turned over, tears sliding down her cheeks and nose. Her hand lifted to brush them away. Winnie tried to sort out what happened, but it was too hard. Insistent sleep edged away her attempts to think and Winnie gave into it, just as she’d given into Lance. Dear God!