A Bouquet of Thorns (34 page)

He laid her on the bed, slowly undressing her, inspecting every inch of her flesh as it was revealed. Stroking it, kissing it, loving it. She stretched her arms above her head, languidly, lasciviously, for him to peel off her shift, and she arched her back, purring like a cat as his mouth closed over her breast, gentle and caressing. Just for a split second did the vision of Charles – clawing at her, abusing her, with no care but for his own gratification – stab into her memory, and then the pain and the fear were gone, cast aside for ever by this man who truly loved her. She knew he would not hurt her and he entered her gently, carefully, drawing her on to the sublime heights of ecstasy, driving out her demons, until she moaned with pleasure and he let out a joyful cry as their love exploded in unison and their flesh became as one.

She gazed up at him, mesmerized, breathless, drowning in his glorious, smiling eyes that roamed tenderly over her face.

‘God, I love you,' he muttered as he kissed her again, and then he rolled away on to his back, drawing her against him so that she lay, wrapped in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder and her naked body, unashamed and unafraid, pressed against his. A supreme and exquisite peace washed through her, and she wanted the moment to last for ever.

But the room was cold and she shivered as her passion subsided. Seth lifted his head, sensitive to her needs, and reached out to gather the counterpane about them, reluctant to let her go. ‘There. I can't have my beautiful darling catching cold now, can I?'

She snuggled down beside him, her arm across his chest, breathing in the masculine scent of him, intoxicated by his closeness, the wonder of what had just passed between them silencing her until she felt him push his head back into the pillow. She raised her eyes and watched, fascinated, as his prominent Adam's apple rose and fell as he swallowed.

‘That's what kept me going, you know. Thinking of you,' he croaked, staring at the ceiling, and all at once, the hairs bristled down the back of Rose's neck. ‘When I was . . . being flogged, I just concentrated on thinking of you. Creating a picture of you in my mind. It was . . . the only way I could take the pain.'

His voice was thick. Ragged. Choked. And the enduring compassion that was Rose Maddiford swamped her in a tidal wave as she drew his head against her breast and he wept wretchedly like a child. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders, feeling the scars, the ridges, beneath her fingers. Oh, yes. She had wept for her own lost soul, but she had found herself again because of this good, worthy man. And now she must be strong for him.

‘We can get through this, Seth,' she whispered into his tousled hair. ‘We have each other now. Look at poor Adam, what he went through. He says 'twas having Rebecca that saved him. And Richard, too. He could never work the way he does if he didn't have Beth to support him.'

She paused, and waited as Seth drew back, pushing the back of his hand against his mouth. ‘I'm sorry,' he sniffed awkwardly. ‘You must think me—'

‘Don't say another word, Seth Warrington. I love you. And to my mind, a man who can't cry isn't worth his salt. However.' She sat up abruptly, tossing her head so that her hair swung enticingly down her back. ‘I
am
getting rather cold. I suggest we get our clothes back on,' she said, picking up his discarded underdrawers and throwing them at him with an endearing grin, ‘and go over to Rosebank Hall. I'll tell Richard to work out how much the repairs to the cottage will cost, and I'll also pay Beth for her services in looking after you. But on one condition: that you're living back here with me by Christmas.'

Seth stared at her, his eyebrows raised in astonishment. ‘Are you sure? I mean, that'll set tongues wagging.'

‘And since when do you think I ever cared about that?' She stopped to pull the shift on over her head, then added cheekily, ‘Of course, you'll be sleeping in your own room. Although I won't mind if you sneak along to mine once in a while.'

The corners of Seth's handsome mouth turned upwards with amusement and then he threw up his head with a roar of laughter, his eyes dancing rakishly as they settled on her face again. ‘I won't mind if I do. You know, I do love you so much.' And he took her in his arms once more.

Rose felt like a child again, free and happy and rocked in a glorious, warm cradle of harmony and peace. There were regrets, of course, things she could never change, but with Seth beside her, she was awash with a deep sense of euphoria. She hadn't been so content since before it had all happened, since her dear father's accident which had set the horrific chain of events in motion. Now she could look forward to a future without fear.

It was into January when the telegram arrived for Seth. Rose frowned as he read it, for she couldn't think why he should receive such a thing. They were in the morning room having breakfast, and when he had finished reading it, he screwed it into a ball and tossed it into the fire where it uncurled slightly and burned in seconds. His face was set, his lips pursed as he stared into the flames for a moment before turning to look at her.

‘Seth?' she asked in a panic, her heart squeezing, for surely nothing could spoil their happiness now? ‘Seth, what is it? They . . . they can't revoke your pardon, can they?'

‘No, no. It's nothing like that. But . . .' He dropped his head before lifting his eyes to her again. ‘Rose, I need to go away.'

Rose's heart turned to a solid block in her chest. ‘Go away?' she murmured. ‘For . . . for how long?'

‘I don't know,' he answered evasively. ‘And . . . I'll need money. A great deal of money.'

She felt the agony penetrate somewhere beneath her ribs. Go away. With her money? Dear God. She knew the colour drained from her face and she began to tremble. Seth stepped forward and took her hands, but she turned her head away.

‘I'm sorry, Rose, but . . . I can't tell you why. Not yet. But please, I beg you, trust me in this. You've trusted me in everything before, and this . . . I just can't tell you, for your own sake.'

His words were spoken with such gravity, his voice so thick, that her gaze was drawn back to his earnest face, his eyes dark with anguish.

‘How much money?' she hardly whispered. ‘And . . . you will come back, won't you?'

He looked horrified, his jaw dropping. ‘Yes, of course I will. Just trust me, Rose.'

Her face was alive and intense with pain as she stared back at him and then swallowed hard. ‘When will you go?' she muttered.

‘As soon as possible. Today.'

‘Oh . . .'

She twisted her head away in an agony of shock, and brushed him off when he tried to take her in his arms.

‘Rose,
please
. You know I wouldn't be doing this unless I absolutely had to.'

‘Will you take Tansy?' she asked frostily now.

‘No. Thank you. I'll be going by train.'

‘Train?' That meant he was going far. To London? ‘'Tis nothing to do with my investments or . . . or your own family?' she suddenly thought to ask.

‘No, thank the Lord. But I would appreciate you taking me into Tavistock. In the wagonette, perhaps, as it's dry.'

It was indeed a beautiful crisp and sunny winter's morning, the sort Rose loved, but as she drove Merlin down into Tavistock, she hardly noticed it. Seth was going away, and he wouldn't say where or why. He tried to talk to her, but she didn't want to know. They went to the bank, the clerk frowning at the substantial amount Mrs Chadwick withdrew and then entrusted to the tall and handsome man by her side. And when Rose saw Seth off at the station, a black tide of suspicion and dismay ripped through her heart. Would she ever see him again?

With a broad, confident smile, she told Florrie, and Molly when she went to visit her, that he had gone away on business and would be back in a few weeks. But inside she was torn to rags. Had she been wrong about Seth all along? He had been proved innocent beyond a shadow of a doubt, but was it possible that in all other ways he had deceived her? Alone in her room, she wrung her hands in frustration and banged her fists on her head. She had been betrayed too often before. She was free from Charles, but was Seth really just as bad?

Dear God, she had
given
herself to Seth on several occasions. Perhaps even now she was carrying his child. He had been so caring, so gentle, awakening her body to some ecstasy she had never known before. But had it all been a trick? Surely not! But she had learnt to distrust, and she felt dragged down by a deep and gnawing depression.

The days passed and she heard nothing. Sometimes she was hard and bitter, a knot frozen solid in her chest. At others, she felt drained with grief and degradation. For what would she say to Florrie if Seth never returned? How could she admit to her shame and her weakness at being taken in by his handsome smile? And yet, at every minute, something inside her still believed in him.

It was more than two weeks before she heard the furious clatter of hooves thundering up the drive and scattering gravel in every direction. Rose was coming down the stairs and by the time she got to the window, the horse had disappeared round the side of the house. Rose's heart tripped and began to gallop as she ran out of the back door and along the terrace towards the stable yard. Could it possibly be . . .?

‘Rose! Rose!'

Seth's voice rang in her ears. Yes! He had kept his word. He was back! Joy sizzled through her body like a bolt of lightning as she scudded through the gate in the high wall. And there she stopped dead, every muscle in her body stilled. Locked in all-encompassing paralysis.

The great sable horse in front of her lengthened its neck, gave a trumpeting whinny and then did what he always had when he couldn't contain his excitement. He did a standing leap from all fours and then bucked wildly, almost unseating his rider.

‘Whoa!' Seth called, bringing the animal under control, and then sat, grinning down at Rose while his magnificent mount shook his head and snorted, jangling the bit in his mouth and breathing great white wreaths into the cold air.

Rose still stood senseless, staring, unable to believe. Slowly, as the horse whinnied again and came forward, nudging demandingly at her shoulder, the numbness unfurled and she shrieked to the sky.

‘Gospel! Oh, my God! Gospel!'

Her arms were around his strong, hairy neck then, trying to draw him into her very being, and when Seth swung his leg over the saddle and jumped down beside her, she didn't know which of them to hug first.

‘How . . . how did you find him?' she spluttered at last through the tears of pure joy that strolled down her cheeks.

‘It was Richard, not me,' Seth told her, smiling down at her utter jubilation. ‘The telegram was from him. He's not a gambling man. Can't afford to be and he's passionately against it because of his father. But he'd heard through the grapevine of a new phenomenon in the racing world based over at Exeter racecourse. A black thoroughbred cross suddenly appeared on the scene and was taking the racing world by storm. Had a reputation for its temper, though, and Richard just wondered if it couldn't possibly be Gospel. That's why I couldn't tell you. I couldn't break your heart by getting your hopes up and then have it turn out to be a wild goose chase. And that's why I needed the money. Successful racehorses don't come cheap, but I did manage to knock the price down a little and I have some change for you.'

Rose gazed up at him, at the light in his smiling, shining eyes. How could she ever have doubted him? The world dropped away as her soul filled with her love, her need, of this good, kind, sensitive man.

‘How can I ever thank you, Seth?'

The elation slid from his radiant face and his muscles moved into a sombre expression that dampened her euphoria.

‘You can do one thing for me,' he said seriously, and her heart bounced in her chest. ‘But it's an awful lot to ask, and I will understand if you won't . . . Marry me, Rose, and make me the happiest man alive.'

‘What?'

He lowered his eyes, his face crestfallen. ‘Please. Think about it, Rose. Not yet, of course. You've been widowed barely three months. I know I have absolutely nothing to offer you. And when people find out who I am, which they'd be bound to in time, they'd say I was after your money—'

‘But we'll know differently.'

It was Seth's turn to be stunned as her words sunk into his brain. He slowly raised his eyes, his brow puckered. ‘Is that . . . is that a
yes
?'

‘Yes.' She shook her head, gave a grunt of surprise and delight. ‘Yes, I suppose it is!'

Her breath fluttered in her throat, and nothing else in the world seemed to matter as the anguish of all that had happened faded away and she stood, wrapped in Seth's arms. Her heart soared. For, at long last, she had found the man with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life . . .

Dr Raymond Power slowly signed the letter, then leant back in the chair with a wistful sigh. He would hand it to the governor in the morning. The position of prison surgeon had provided him with a decent wage and reasonable accommodation for his dear wife and family, allowing him also to attend the more impecunious inhabitants of the area at nominal fees. But it was time to move on, and now he had secured a partnership with an elderly physician in a fashionable quarter of Bristol, and with luck, he would acquire the entire practice in time.

His wife had hated Princetown. The dismal settlement cut off from the rest of humanity, the lack of acceptable society, the appalling climate – snowdrifts and lacerating winds in winter, damp, driving rain and swirling mists even in summer, and no protection from the sun on the rare occasions that it did shine. But it wasn't because of his wife that he was leaving.

He was a man of medicine. Of healing. And he simply could not reconcile his vocation with the position he held. In the early days, Dartmoor had been used purely as a sanatorium for consumptive and other infirm convicts, sent there for the fresh air and the benefit of their health. Ironic. For soon the gaol had also become the dumping ground for the most notorious criminals in the land, to be punished by sleeping in cold, damp cells, existing on a starvation diet with a decidedly dubious water supply, and expected to work like slaves. And when they caught pneumonia digging drainage ditches on the open moor in impossible conditions, had a limb blown off or were blinded by explosives in the quarry, or fell from the high prison blocks they were building,
he
, Raymond Power, was the one who had to patch them up in whatever way he could so that they could return to some other gruelling task. And then there had been the outbreak of fever when all his efforts had not prevented so many from dying. Not that anyone cared particularly, as the regime was such that there were few warders like Jacob Cartwright who felt able to exercise a little compassion.