Angus turned towards the small mirror on the washstand and ran his hand down the smoothness of his unscarred cheek.
Emily’s parents’ visit had been cut short at Mr Micklen’s sudden behest. He’d cited urgent matters requiring him at home but had not countenanced his wife’s pleas that she be allowed to remain.
They’d left that afternoon and Angus would be crossing the channel tomorrow.
He knew Emily was expecting him tonight, but God, this was not the right time.
He’d certainly not expected such an invitation. Not after their recent strained relations. But if the surrender of her body, her tacit acceptance of the marriage contract, were her way of indicating she wanted a truce, he’d not complain. He’d show her how much he loved her with his tender caresses. Early in their marriage, he’d been shocked by her claim that she’d been a slave to passion in Jack’s arms. Now he understood better the deeply smouldering fires of her complex temperament and how they could be ignited. He wanted to prove he was capable of the same depth of love she’d attributed to Jack. Surely, then, he would be rewarded in kind.
Scowling at his reflection, he wished he felt eager anticipation. The truth was, he had no idea what had motivated Emily to indicate in such clear terms that she would accept him into her bedchamber that night. Not after his allegations of Jack’s duplicity, which he deeply regretted. He should have remained silent if he’d not intended furnishing her with the entire truth.
He did not delude himself that Emily was excited about tonight. Dull resignation was most likely her overriding emotion; and yet, they had to start somewhere.
In the dim lamplight his scar stood out, raised from the smooth surface of his face and lighter in colour. Neither that nor the alignment of his features had ever been of concern, nor were they now. He focused on the silver blade of his razor lying upon the marble surface and contemplated the long walk down the passage to his wife’s apartments.
To the only woman he’d ever desired.
Emily had presided over dinner like a queen. At Wildwood she was the consummate mistress, managing the servants with skill, though conversation with her husband had been even more strained since her parents had left.
No, after nearly two months of anticipation, dreaming of how he would prove that he, not Jack, were the better man, he was not looking forward to this at all.
Knotting the heavy silk banyan around his middle, Angus strode purposefully towards the door, pausing with his hand upon the doorknob. How engineered the whole act was. There was no feeling on her part but she was submitting like the good wife she’d promised she’d be.
It made him sick.
At the same time he could barely contain his desperate hunger for her.
He heard her stifled gasp when he entered her room.
‘I did not expect you so soon,’ she said, rising from her dressing table and he watched, mesmerised, as her lawn-clad figure swayed over the candle she carried to the cabinet by the bed.
‘Don’t snuff it out.’ At her side in two steps, he put his hand on her wrist to stay her. He felt her trembling. Their eyes locked; hers black, reflecting her terror. The only relief he felt was that he could see no disdain.
‘Emily, I have something for you.’ God, he sounded so desperate. The moment the words were out he knew this was not the time to present his gift. There had been no ‘right time’ to present it to her before, but this was about as wrong a time as he could ever have decided upon.
Her eyes went to the slim velvet box he’d placed on the dressing table, but they did not brighten and he silently cursed himself for his gaucheness. She’d see his gift in a different light altogether.
‘Thank you.’ Her voice was dull as she picked up the diamond choker Sir John had given him. It glittered in the candlelight.
‘Let me fasten it.’
His hands shook as they never had in battle when he swept back her hair, his fingertips brushing her soft, delicate skin.
Turning, she stepped back so he could admire his gift. ‘Do you want me to keep it on when …?’
At the catch in her voice he wished he could just call the whole thing off.
‘Whatever you wish.’
After a pause she shrugged, removed the silver locket she always wore, then took a step towards the bed as if resigned to her fate.
He followed, drawing back the covers. Slowly, he bent to scoop her up, placing her on the soft feather down mattress. Mutely, without expression, she stared up at him.
He felt the tightness within him grow. It gripped his heart, the pain of longing matching that which throbbed in that basest, expected region of himself.
Their shadows twined and danced upon the walls, then slid out of sight as Angus lowered himself onto the bed beside Emily. With his elbow supporting his weight, he gazed down at her.
Lord, she was beautiful. The purity of her expression, the sweep of her throat which curved down to meet the swell of her breasts made him catch his breath. She was perfection.
When his hand grazed her bare skin as he toyed with the ribbon which tied her night rail, her tiny intake of breath was a reminder of the weight of his great responsibility. He did not touch the diamonds around her throat; did not want to look at them.
Obediently, she lay pliant beside him while he practiced the restraint of a lifetime. His lungs felt so constricted he could hardly breathe, his heart gripped by his awful responsibility, and all the while his loins were on fire, urging him to consummate the act which underpinned their marriage contract. She was giving herself to him in return for his continued protection.
Simple.
Like Jessamine had.
Raising himself above her, with just the insubstantial fabric of night clothes between them, he could feel the heat from her body, the rise and fall of her chest as she sucked in each anticipatory breath.
Her eyes did not leave his as she moved slightly beneath him, shifting her body to accommodate his weight more comfortably.
He couldn’t kiss her. Of course he could not. That would be far too intimate. Reaching down beneath the covers he found the hem of her night rail.
She arched slightly, making it easier for him and he eased the garment upwards. As his hand skimmed her thighs, a lightning charge ripped through him in response to her heat, her shudder.
Her head rolled to one side and he saw that she fixed her gaze on a shadow on the wall, her whole body tensing.
She was anticipating the pain. She’d done this before. Jack had violated her. She’d taunted Angus with the fact she’d enjoyed it, but what did a good wife know of passion?
Women bartered their bodies for the things they could not provide for themselves. Emily’s unpalatable marriage to Angus was the result of having been coerced by Jack. Now the time had come when she could no longer withhold her side of the bargain.
Parting her legs obediently, her eyes seemed suddenly vacant, turning her face into an inscrutable mask.
Also like Jessamine.
All the pent-up desire, longing and desperation drained out of him.
Angus gazed at her hair spread like a dark, glossy curtain over the pillow and the resignation writ so bleakly in her expression, while the memory of the dreadful night Jessamine first came to his bed returned to haunt him.
Beneath him, Emily stirred as he rolled away, her voice a hoarse whisper, though he heard fear and confusion there, too. ‘Where are you going?’
He had the gall, for a split second, to imagine she considered his retreat a disappointment.
Retying his banyan, he bent over her and gently brushed back a strand of dark hair from her cheek. The softness of her skin nearly undid him. He wanted to curl up beside her, feel the curve of her body pressed against his and stroke her into feelings which matched his own.
Only shame and disgust at the memory of the last time he’d bedded a woman stopped him.
‘I can’t do this, Emily.’ His throat was so dry he could barely say the words. He stooped to brush his lips across her brow. ‘Sleep well.’
She said nothing but the look in her eyes slashed at his heart. She might not have wanted this but his rejection had battered her pride.
On his way out, he saw the book of Children’s Verse, tied with red ribbon, on top of the escritoire near the door. Accompanying it was an envelope addressed to Madeleine and clearly he was to carry it to France with him.
Only the greatest self-control prevented him from picking it up and hurling it at the wall.
Most people observing the lovely, statuesque Mrs McCartney as she stood on the portico of the classical rotunda high on the hill might have thought she was simply admiring the splendid view of woods and chequered fields.
Little did Emily know she had become a figure of curiosity and that much drawing room gossip centred around the tea party the rector’s wife was organising. The grand lady of the manor had earned a reputation for mystique. She was also referred to as the handsomest in the neighbourhood.
Unaware, and afraid the secret of her tarnished reputation may have been leaked, Emily kept to herself, preferring the solitude of her gilded prison which she left only occasionally to visit Caroline.
On this particular day, with Angus gone above two weeks on his second tour of duty, Emily watched dispassionately as Major Woodhouse laboured up the hill.
He greeted her with a lie: ‘I came to see how you were faring.’ She knew he was simply checking on her. Perhaps he wanted further proof of her disloyalty as a wife.
‘That is kind of you, Major. Angus sends me regular updates on his good health. Little else, let me reassure you.’
She began to walk, forcing him to follow her, his company like a thorn in her side. She realised she’d made an enemy of him, but though she was well aware of the foolishness and unfairness of her words, she could not take them back.
‘Your husband is the height of discretion.’ The corners of the major’s mouth tugged when she glanced at him. ‘Has he asked you about your French connections?’ The casual tone belied the sudden intensity of his look.
Furious indignation rose up in her breast but she managed tightly, ‘We have no communication with the French side of our family, Major. I can only assume them casualties of this terrible war.’
He raised an eyebrow and she bridled at his scepticism. ‘Did you interrogate my husband over his French connections?’ she demanded, swinging round. Then when he appeared confused, ‘Did he not consort with a Frenchwoman on the battle field?’
‘Jessamine?’
His shock appeared profound, as indeed it might. What good wife referred to her husband’s mistress?
Emily was not about to lose the advantage. ‘So you knew?’ Angrily she went on. ‘It would seem my husband’s association with this … Jessamine’—she all but spat the name—‘who lived in France, did not constitute the same threat to national security that it appears his association with his wife, who has never set foot in France, does.’
His composure returned, Major Woodhouse continued walking, silent for some seconds until he asked, coolly, ‘So you deny having had any contact with any relatives in France?’
‘Why is my past plumbed as if I were a traitor?’
He cocked his head as he rested a hand upon the Greek column which supported the folly they’d been traversing.
‘An accident of birth does not make one a traitor. Only one’s intentions and actions. I am asking questions, not to satisfy my personal curiosity, Mrs McCartney, but because I think it’s important. I’m sorry if you feel I am interrogating you.’
Emily tried to steady her breathing, still deeply unsettled. ‘I have nothing to hide and my husband certainly does not regard me with the unfair suspicion you obviously harbour,’ she said softly. ‘Despite my incautious words to you last time we met, I love and admire my husband.’
‘Bravo, Mrs McCartney.’
Emily regarded him through narrowed eyes while she gathered her courage to pursue what would under normal circumstances be a forbidden topic. ‘Since you brought up the subject, Major McCartney, I would like to know what else you know of my husband’s former mistress.’
She registered the flare of shock in his eye at her unladylike words. Maintaining an air of cool control as she resumed walking, she prompted, ‘Naturally I am curious at the circumstances surrounding my husband’s association with the … enemy, and as you instigated the topic I believe I am entitled to pursue it.’
‘That is, indeed, direct, Mrs McCartney.’
The discomfort in his tone felt like a point in her favour. She picked up her skirts as she carefully negotiated the steps that led down the hill towards the house. ‘You’re a man who believes in the truth when it doesn’t compromise the security of our country.’ Stopping on level ground when they’d reached a small terrace built into the hillside, she turned with a smile that hid her pique at his reluctance to answer her. This man had insulted her. He’d all but called her a traitor. She dragged in a breath. Simply asking the question about Jessamine branded her the creature beyond redemption he must think her for her previous sins.
‘What was Jessamine to my husband and why did she kill herself?’
‘I’m afraid I can tell you nothing, ma’am.’
Beneath the cloud-studded sky, his look was evasive. Rather than her tormentor, he appeared to her suddenly as no more than a young man driven by conviction, whom she had highly embarrassed. Self-righteousness drained from her. So did her anger, for she had nothing to hide and Major Woodhouse’s questioning had clearly been motivated by overzealousness. She relented as she contoured one of the smooth pillars which edged the terrace with the palm of her hand. ‘It’s all right, Major Woodhouse. I behaved abominably the last time we met and you have every reason to be wary of what you say to me.’
The humiliation of Angus’s rejection was still raw. Was there some deficiency in herself she was unaware of? As she’d waited for him to come to her, she’d reflected that her timing in requesting their marriage contract be honoured the night before he left for France might not be auspicious. However, her father’s strictures were still ringing in her ears. The extraordinary thing was that the moment she gazed upon Angus’s strong, lithe body in the candlelight and imagined his warm mouth and body pressed against hers, she’d been flooded with a fierce, hot desire that had nothing to do with enticing her husband for the reasons her father had told her were so necessary.
She’d been ashamed by the force of her ardour during those moments of anticipation. Would Angus believe her wanton for the lustful impulses she’d be unable to hide once sexual congress were begun? What would he make of the ice maiden who suddenly proved she was every bit the depraved creature who’d allowed herself to be seduced outside of wedlock?
So many confusing thoughts and feelings had been whirling through her brain and body when he’d gazed into her face with that tender look which made her heart perform some extraordinary contortion she couldn’t begin to explain.
Then, without warning, without explanation, he’d withdrawn. With such terrible suddenness.
It was only after his departure from her bedchamber that Emily, trawling for explanations, wondered if her husband had actually been in love with Jessamine. She remembered Caroline, in the carriage, whispering to Jonathan that ‘love’ had nothing to do with Angus’s union with this woman, but could Caroline have been wrong?
Major Woodhouse, silent beside her, blocked the weak afternoon sun. There was little love lost between them but she thought she saw some relaxing of his features at her veiled apology.
‘The wind is rising, Mrs McCartney. I think we should return.’
Reluctantly, she acquiesced when he offered her his arm, though Emily chose the path that led towards the ornamental lake instead of returning to the house.
The major, still so young and boyish in looks, had survived the weary, soul destroying retreat from Corunna at Angus’s side. He obviously knew more about Jessamine than he was prepared to reveal.
Emily was not about to relent. ‘My sister-in-law tells me this woman was a camp follower Angus met during the retreat to Corunna.’
He glanced at her, his expression set. ‘Few who lived through the horrors of Corunna choose to talk about it. If your husband doesn’t, you must respect that.’
She waited, watching him filter his thoughts. ‘Then I have no choice but to think the worst.’
They walked, Emily still clinging to his arm as they negotiated a small, narrow flight of steps. When he finally spoke it was as if he were narrating an ancient saga and his voice was carefully devoid of emotion. ‘So many heroes died in the mud and cold, denied a glorious death in battle. Jessamine—’ He hesitated. ‘My apologies, ma’am, but I do not think I knew her last name. She had been the – er – companion of an English foot soldier. From these parts, I’m told, though that is all I know about the woman.’ He stopped, obviously struck by doubts regarding the wisdom of continuing. ‘I think, ma’am, that if your husband chose to keep this information from you—’
‘I have been supplied half-truths from various sources. You would be doing my husband a service if you gave me the honourable version.’
With a sigh, the major gazed across the sweeping lawns. ‘Angus deserves the comfort and security he has found. He is one of my dearest friends and I would go to great lengths to ensure his wellbeing … his happiness.’ He sent her a sharp look, as if he doubted that Emily was doing much to contribute to that. Indecisiveness crossed his face. Then she heard his breath escape in a soft sigh, as if he’d made a decision. ‘If it will help you to understand some of the conflicts that torment your husband, I will tell you this.’
At last …
‘Several days into the retreat, with bodies dead and dying amidst the snow, soldiers wounded and wives and camp followers struggling to survive the distance to the shore where British troops were waiting to transport them home, your husband came upon Jessamine tending to her dying protector. The man would not survive his injuries. The enemy was on their heels and his sufferings were acute.’
Tensely, Emily waited in silence for him to go on.
The major’s tone changed. She thought she heard pleading in his voice. ‘To elaborate on the nature of this soldier’s injuries would be too much for your delicate sensibilities, Mrs McCartney, and yet I would want to do so in order to exonerate those actions which your husband was called upon to expedite’—he paused—‘entirely as a result of decency and humanity and the urging of the wounded soldier himself and his woman. Death was inevitable, either through cold and deprivation or the advancing enemy.’
Emily pressed her hand to her heart. Dear God, was this the burden her husband lived under? The premonition of what Major Woodhouse was about to say was almost overwhelming and without realising it she pre-empted him in a whispered rush. ‘Jessamine prevailed upon my husband to put hers out of his misery?’
Major Woodhouse inclined his head. ‘Consequently she was left without a protector. She believed she owed your husband a great debt’—his tone grew dry—‘though it took her some time to persuade him to agree to the contract.’
After a tense silence, he changed the subject. ‘I hope you are reconciled to Major McCartney’s need for discretion.’
Emily’s reply was distant. She could think only of the woman Angus had taken reluctantly into his bed after she’d begged him to kill her husband. The liaison had been formed through duty and necessity, not love.
When Angus had come to Emily’s bed the night before he left, she wondered how he’d felt, knowing he was about to make love to the second woman whose husband’s death he was responsible for?
‘I’m sorry, Major Woodhouse, what did you say?’ She struggled to attend to him. ‘Oh, discretion? Have no fear, Angus speaks in only the vaguest of terms about his work.’ She was still in shock but she forced herself to turn, saying with a grim smile, ‘Tell me, Major Woodhouse, should I be concerned for Angus’s safety?’
‘I will offer you no platitudes, Mrs McCartney. There are always risks in defending one’s country.’
Sadness washed over her. ‘Poor Jack. He should have died defending his country. Instead, he died defending my husband.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Major Woodhouse jerked his head up. ‘Is that what Captain McCartney told you?’
Startled, she replied, ‘Have you heard otherwise?’
He flushed to the roots of his brown curls. ‘I will not refute what he has told you. Angus was chosen for his discretion, ma’am. It’s not my place to elaborate where he chooses to keep his own counsel.’
She struggled to understand him. More untruths? ‘Even if his wife is kept in ignorance?’ she whispered.
‘Especially if he deems it safest to keep his wife in ignorance.’