Charlotte crouched in her hole, soggy and chilled, as the screams of men and horses and shots fired filled the air, flames and smoke billowing upward.
She should run.
No, she should stay put.
Her indecisiveness felt like a second skin over her own. She wanted to run, but she could not get her legs to move from the safety of the tree.
The chaos must be the result of her escape, the tumult a distraction. For that she was thankful.
Few of the manor folk had been kind, though several such as Mercy had, indeed, helped her. She worried for them.
Heaven forefend, she was acting the coward.
She pressed her hands against the tree’s sides and lifted a leg onto the rim of the hole, preparing to jump.
“Get yerself outta there.”
Failure flushed her body, making her woozy. She had been so close. The guard stood just beyond the hole cradling his gun.
“One moment,” she said in a thready voice.
“Now!” the cruel voice said.
“I am trying, but I am stiff.”
“Bloody hell!” the guard screeched. “Ye get out or I’ll haul ye out myself. You’ll not like that one bit.”
He stepped close, eyes gleaming, lips a snarl of a smile. She recognized him, a nasty brute. Then again, all the guards were loathsome, not a drop of kindness amongst them.
Charlotte got her second leg onto the rim and jumped—a mere three feet—yet her legs buckled, flopping to the ground.
The guard gripped her arm in a punishing hold and hauled her to a stand. She wobbled, but remained upright, and shrugged him off.
He swung his rifle in the direction of the manor house. “Get goin’.”
Weary as she was, she would nonetheless delay the inevitable. Charlotte slammed her hands to her hips and if she swayed a bit, so what. “I am not going anywhere with you, sir.”
The man snorted, then poked her with his gun barrel. “Get!”
“I believe the lady refused.”
Bright stars winked amongst the blackness crowding Charlotte’s vision. Patrick.
She pinched herself hard so as not to faint, bracing a hand on the tree. Finding a trace of control, she lifted her eyes to Patrick atop a large bay. My God, he was beautiful, like a hero of old—hair windblown, seat in the saddle deceptively relaxed, eyes lit with fire.
Her legs became jelly and she slid down the trunk to her knees.
“Patrick,” she said, so soft she doubted he heard her. It mattered not, for he was here, had come for her, not forgotten her. She knuckled her eyes, the pressure of tears fierce.
The guard swung his rifle around, but Patrick’s pistol never wavered. He cocked it.
“I would not, sir,” he said. “I am accorded a fair shot. And at this distance…? But you are more than welcome to try your luck.”
“Bloody hell.” The guard spit then lay down his rifle.
“Charlotte,” Patrick said, “can you stand?”
She nodded, pulling herself up using the tree to lean against it, panting.
“Well done.” Patrick brought his horse near, pistol steadfast on the guard’s face, then switched the gun from his right hand to his left. “Now jump, Lottie.”
Charlotte pushed off from the tree and leapt.
Patrick caught her waist and hefted her onto the saddle before him, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest.
“All right, darling?” he said.
“I am perfect.”
“As am I.” He unwound his cravat, his pistol still targeting the guard. “Sweetheart, I must ask you dismount, to tie his hands with my cravat. Can you do that?”
“I can.” Patrick eased her down, ordering the guard to lie on his stomach, and Charlotte completed the procedure.
“Can you remove his bootlaces and tie his ankles?”
“Yes.” She struggled, strength ebbing, but fastened the guard’s ankles with a solid knot. Straightening, she peered up at the glorious sight of her husband astride a horse. He leaned down, opened his arms, and raised Charlotte to the saddle.
“I will send someone back for the guard.” He signaled the horse to walk on, and she clasped his face, that dear face. All her longing and pent-up fear dissolved as she kissed him with all the hope, the faith, and the love stored in her heart.
His lips on hers were warm and welcoming until all that remained was Patrick. She was home. At last.
Early on their return trip to Woodbine, Charlotte’s world constantly shifted, blurring with phantasmagoric imaginings—St. Michaels racing after them, a murder of crows circling the coach, trees coming alive in the wind’s rage to chase them.
Within Penrhyn Creigiog’s purloined coach, Charlotte leaned her head on Patrick’s shoulder, his warm arms about her. They had stored his chair in the wagon’s covered bed, Mercy and Jemmy seated on the bench beside the wagon master. Charlotte was pleased the pair would be joining their household, Mercy as her personal maid, the former having resigned after the Floating Duck dust up.
Across from them on the seat sat Halafair, the painting covered and secured.
While St. Michaels had been nowhere to be found, they had discovered Halafair in the cellars, on its face in the floor’s muck. To Charlotte’s horror, the painting had been smeared with feces. They speculated it was too large and cumbersome to take with him, hence St. Michaels’ parting gift. The work could be restored, but Mama would be aghast at the baron’s final two-fingered salute.
She slept, awakening as they neared home and family, Charlotte’s mind clear.
“How do you feel, love?” Patrick said, offering her a flask. “Only water.”
Drinking it down, she gathered her composure for their arrival.
As Charlotte saw it, she had two choices, the easiest to wallow in her fears, reanimating horrid scenes from her captivity over and over. Or, she could paste on a smile, lock those moments away, and get on with her life.
She was no fool. Her family would think she was hiding her distress, and to an extent, she would be doing just that. But if she gave her fears a voice, they would grow, gobbling her whole.
“Love?” he said again.
“I am well,” she said. “My aches are wearying, but nothing more.”
His lips thinned, his eyes skeptical.
“Let us put this horrid episode behind us, shall we?” she said, her voice chipper, her smile wide.
His ominous pause led to a profound sigh. He nodded. “I shall follow your lead.”
Upon arrival, Charlotte stood in Woodbine’s entryway surrounded by her loved ones. As expected, all was chaos—loud voices, bright colors, flickering candles, hugs and kisses. Too much.
Her discomposure must have been evident to Patrick. “Give the woman some air!”
Charlotte laughed, wearing the face of someone with few cares. “I am well, darlings, now that I am home.”
Unlike the stone walls of Penrhyn Creigiog, Woodbine’s plastered ones felt alien, yet she found comfort in the grand portraits of horses by Stubbs lining the walls. As if they were old friends who needed reacquaintance.
She kissed cheeks, offered smiles, perhaps chuckled a time or two, all to reassure those who loved her she was well.
The throng parted for Patrick, who wheeled closer. “What is it you wish to do, Lottie? Anything you want, darling girl.”
Anything…But she did not know. She moved down the hall, leaving behind her well-wishing throng, the carpet springy as she enjoyed the portraits of Lansdowne forebears by Reynolds, Gainsborough, and others.
Charlotte stood in the entryway to their rooms, which appeared the same as when she had gone to deliver the painting. She then peeked into her studio, her easels, canvases, and paints standing as she had left them. Back in their rooms, she drifted through the parlor into their dressing room, a glint of crystal stealing her attention. A flagon of perfume, its bottle faceted. Light gilded the liquid gold. Beautiful, until a distant voice drew her like none other.
“Patrick?”
“Would you prefer to be alone, Lottie?” Patrick wheeled across the threshold.
“I would not.” She whirled, and she must have looked fearsome, for his face stiffened.
“Apologies, love.” Patrick rolled close, his hand grasping hers. “Is this all too much?”
Charlotte shook her head, squeezing his hand.
They stared at each other as if stunned to be in one another’s presence, a frisson of energy arcing between them.
It didn’t last, the monster taking possession of her thoughts. She had known her cheerful demeanor would be a challenge to maintain, and it was. What she hadn’t anticipated was her rising anger. But one thing would assuage these feelings.
“I must paint,” she said, her fury a molten volcano.
She hastened to her studio, flung off her gloves, and began mixing paints. Then she lifted a fresh canvas onto an easel and went to work.
Blinded by hatred, Charlotte slashed paint across the canvas—Naples yellow; crimson lake, carmine red, and vermillion; ultramarine and Prussian blue; Scheele’s green and black. Yes, she needed black to mirror the monster’s heart. Dipping her brush, whipping it again and again until a sound penetrated her haze.
Pounding at the door. “May I come in?”
“Of course!” she hollered back. But she wasn’t finished. Not yet. Not by half!
More colors, and more for the deluge of anger consuming her. Charlotte’s chest heaved, and still, there was more to do.
“Stop!”
Charlotte rounded on Patrick. “Why?”
“I am concerned, is all, Lottie.” Patrick’s eyes shifted from herself to her painting. “You are covered in paint, dearest.”
She peered at her hands, her dress, her arms. “Indeed, I am!” Shame on her, for she was usually far neater when inspiration took her. Her senses pricked in the aftermath of her rage, and she laughed. In truth, she cared little for the mess.
“Let us clean you up, shall we?” Patrick said.
Charlotte nodded, and he rolled close, his worry obvious.
She sat on her painter’s stool, and Patrick gathered a cloth and linseed oil, then began wiping her face and hands.
“Can you finish this later?” he said, his voice calm and measured.
Staring at the painting, she shuddered, for she had indeed painted the monster, her bold too-colorful strokes depicting him in his physician’s mask, the work disorganized and strange, like no work she had executed before. Yet, when she stepped back from the canvas, a charge of energy bristled from the painting, pleasing her.
“I am done, Patrick.” And she felt the better for it.
Now, Patrick was her surcease, his presence promising safety and care.
“What do you need, love?” he said, putting aside the cloth.
She dropped to her knees, wrapping her arms around his waist, and laying her head on his lap, soothed by his scent and touch. “I wish for you, Patrick. Only for you.”
“I wish for you as well, Lottie,” Patrick said. “Rather desperately, in fact.”
His wife’s eyes glimmered, a cerulean sea of desire and anxiety.
“Come,” he said. “Let me fetch something.” She unwound and followed him to the bedroom, where he moved to the wardrobe and pulled out a large box. He waved her to the upholstered klismos chair.
“I collected these whilst you were gone.” He set the box on her lap.
Lottie raised the lid, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Courting gifts, you see.” He chuckled. “A bit late, but nonetheless…”
Eyes wide, a smile trembling her lips, she lifted each one, opened the poetry book, popped a chocolate into her mouth, and was charmed by the miniature dingy he’d crafted with “Lottie” on its stern. “Thank you. These are indeed treasures.”
“You deserve to be courted,” he continued. “You deserve much, my dearest girl.”
“As do you, my husband.” She began unbuttoning her gown, slipped the sleeves off, then scooched it over her bum, dropping the heavy thing to the floor. “We shall burn it.”
Her near-transparent chemise revealed every curve, and he was undone. Lottie was exquisite.
She took his hand, and he rolled beside her to their bedroom. She drew back the covers.
A hullabaloo ensued when the baths he’d ordered arrived with tubs and a procession of maids and footmen carrying buckets to fill them. Clean at last, he donned fresh pantaloons and shirt, to discover Lottie standing beside their bed in a new chemise, her hair freshly washed, dried, and unbound.
Patrick was incredulous, feelings run riot, as she slipped onto the bed, then slid to the far position, peering at him with owl eyes.
A pleasure was before him, and a responsibility. His pride pinched at the thought of exposing his legs.
Folly. For he ached for Charlotte, his wife, this brave, wondrous woman who had survived captivity and devised her own escape. He hoped he was up to the task.
Climbing into bed, he slid close to twine his arms around his Lottie, her hair glorious, her lips parted, her eyes the deepest sapphire. She was everything.
Yet reservations for her well-being pinched his joy. “Are you very sure, my dear? You have just experienced trauma. Perhaps waiting would be—”
“Did you know,” she said, “St. Michaels wished to marry me?”
“He did not find our wedded state an impediment?”
“As with much, the man ignored that which he disliked. He questioned whether we had consummated our marriage.”
“Dear Christ, did he really?”
“I lied and…” Her cheeks pinked. “Well, I reassured him we had done so. I have thought much on this, and I wish to make my lie truth, Patrick, to be your wife in full.”
It took but moments for Patrick to shrug off his shirt, revealing a bronzed chest sprinkled with black hair that knifed beneath his pantaloons. His stiffened erection strained beneath the cloth.
Charlotte had never seen such, but Rose’s talk eons ago had explained much about the act of making love. All would be well. She repeated the phrase in her head again and again.
Facing her, Patrick propped his head on an elbow, his bicep bulging. The urge to touch him, to feel that bronzed skin beneath her fingers compelled her to do just that. She smoothed her fingers over his shoulder and down his arm. His face tightened in a way that said…what? Perhaps he liked her attentions, for his blue eyes burned.
In a daring move, she traced her hand across his chest, the sensations of smooth flesh and springy hair causing bubbles of need to fizz through her, need for what she was unsure, though her private place ached.
He draped his torso over her and dipped his head for a kiss. Then another. And another. The first, soft tantalizing ones urged more until Charlotte could do nothing but deepen their kisses, touching his tongue, licking it, dancing with it as that fizzy urge rose.
When he touched her breasts, she gasped, and he dipped his head to lave her nipple.
“Oh!” Her fingers threaded through his hair, longer than she remembered, while he smoothed a hand across her waist, then delved downward until he brushed her very core.
He kissed her belly whilst his busy fingers moved to that most intimate spot. She grew frantic, the sensations he drew from her intense with pleasure. She touched his shoulders, his back, but that was not enough.
She moaned, knowing not what to do, but wanting…wanting...
His skin grew slick, his brow dotted with sweat, when he reared back, his breath harsh. “I would see all of you, Charlotte. Will you remove your chemise?”
The desperation in his words shocked her. No one had laid eyes upon her since childhood, and now she must expose herself and her flaws to a husband she admired. She steeled herself, for she very much wished to please him. Charlotte lifted her chemise up and over her head. Except the process proved to be rather comical, giggling when the garment proved somewhat intractable.
Patrick chuckled, as well, helping her with the last bit, and then she was naked. If possible, the hunger in his eyes grew more fierce before he dipped to suckle her breast.
Heaven help her, how could she think when his hands and mouth whispered across her flesh? Her breasts ached, as did her private place, escalating Charlotte’s desire, wishing to assuage it, but not knowing how.
She wanted to touch him there. Yet how could she? Too embarrassing. And yet she must, her hands gliding over that hard ridge beneath his pantaloons. His moan when she did so only served to heighten her want.
In a moment between their kisses and pets, amidst sweaty bodies, their hips met and moved in a rhythm both alien and natural.
Charlotte pulled back, dizzy. The next bit was hard, harder than she had imagined. But she pressed on. “I wish to know all of you, my husband. My feelings go far beyond the physical, but I need that, too. To see, to touch, to love, and whilst I am naked, you are half-clothed.”