Defiant Angel (40 page)

Tiffany was adjusting her stirrup when Rory pulled alongside of her. She decided she was in too good a mood to let him upset her this day and decided to ignore him.

The others shifted in their saddles, screaming out wagers to the bookmakers. Vanessa VanGard's throaty laughter broke through. "I heard the duchess is a fair rider. We should have no contest. I bet on my own team one hundred pounds."

"Precisely why I wagered against my own team," shouted Marcel.

Rory casually smoked, watching Tiffany stand in her stirrups, being sure they were even. He asked quietly, "What say you of this, Tiffany?"

After a moment in which she decided he was not mocking her, she answered, softly voicing her trepidation, "I find no sport in running down a fox. I can't stand man's inhumanity to animals and will not wager."

While it was common knowledge this was Tiffany's first hunt, why she had not hunted until now wasn't known. The fact that she was a superb rider was all her team cared about, that and winning.

The hound-master came over to Rory, asking him to join Clinton's team, for there was one too many on Tiffany's team. Rory had no recourse but to trot over to Clinton, shrugging his shoulders.

The horn was blown, the hounds released, and while the riders waited for the signal, Alan moved his mount alongside Tiffany. He smiled softly at her and her heart warmed, remembering the days of riding over their properties, leading him on a merry chase.

As if reading her thoughts, Alan said, "It will be like the old days."

"Yes, it will," Tiffany replied.

The report of the gun sounded and Tiffany dug her heels In. (She forgot the fate of the fox, feeling safe in the company of one who knew her so well, one whom she could trust.)

"Ah, Clinton, it would appear your wife's team will win,
mon ami. "
Clinton nodded. He was concerned, and both Brent and Rory could see it on his face.

Clinton's group had been misled on a false scent, and now they were farther away from the fox and Tiffany.

"Perhaps we should head yonder, where the baying is louder," suggested Chad.

Leslie Marshall called out as the riders began to move, "Gentlemen! Do you mind if I catch my breath? I daresay I am exhausted."

Rory rolled his eyes heavenward, thinking most of these people would starve if they had to hunt for their food. Knowing Clinton wanted to find Tiffany and realizing they were headed on another wild chase, he suggested, "If you chaps don't mind, I suggest we head east, for the hounds we hear now are just as lost as our own."

"I agree, let's be off," Clinton said.

"Just wait a minute, gentlemen. What's the fuss! We have no chance of winning." Leslie fixed her hair, adding, "And I daresay, the end is so bloody, I won't mind missing it."

Taking the proverbial bull by the horns, Clinton instructed, "Brent will remain with you, Countess, until you regain your strength. The rest of us will head off."

Tiffany saw the pack surround the petrified fox. She tried to turn her mount around to leave, but the throng of riders was rushing in, pressing her, their mounts crushing against her legs while she frantically sought to escape.

Her mount became skittish smelling Tiffany's fear and panic and began prancing in circles, slipping on the muddy bank.

The need to escape was overwhelming; a primitive terror born of fear overrode reason. She raised her terrified eyes in search of Clinton.

She found instead Alan and cried out his name. Alan looked over at what he mistook as her cry of victory and shouted, "By Jove, you've done it, girl!" He called out to all in the confusion, "She's done it. We've won!"

The group moved in on her, shouting, "Bloody the duchess, bloody the duchess." Someone pulled her from her mount and drew her to the hounds. She heard the snapping, growling, vicious noise and watched in horror as the pack attacked and mangled the fox. Blood spurting from a severed artery splashed on her. She cried. The hounds tearing the body apart, fighting and nipping each other in the blood sport, caused the bile to rise in her throat.

She could not move and felt the throng of people push her closer to the hound-master, who turned, holding the bloody tail in an upraised hand.

"Tribute to the duchess," the crowd cried.

She closed her eyes and began to back away but was stopped by a wall of people pressing in.

"Come now, Tiffany, it's tradition, you know." Alan pulled on her hand. The hound-master reached up, smearing one cheek, then the other, with blood, still warm and fresh.

Instinctively she touched her cheek and looked at her bloody hand. She gazed down at her shirt, splattered with blood, then looked up at the crowd celebrating their blood sport. She backed away terrified, in shock, then turned, never seeing Clinton or Rory trying to push their way into the crowd, and screamed.

No one heard it, but Clinton saw her terrified face and silent scream.

She fell in her rush to be gone, slipping on the muddy bank. She scrambled up, bile rising, threatening to spill, and she ran.

Clinton followed and saw her stumble, nearly falling into a ditch. He pushed his mount to gain on her.

Tiffany ran, her hair streaming out, tears blurring her vision. She was very close to complete hysteria and unaware the ground sloped. Stumbling, she would have toppled down the steep hill had not an arm swooped down, lifting her up.

Clinton swung her across his saddle within the safe circle of his arms, bringing her close against his chest. Gently he moved his hand up and down her back until her sobs slowed, whispering, "Hush, hush." He kissed the top of her head and rocked her in his arms.

Her sobs slowed to gulps and hiccups. She turned her face in to his chest, feeling protected and safe.

"I . . . I . . . I'm going to be sick."

He swung down, and when her feet hit the ground, she ran, tripping over a tree root, sprawling to her knees. Nauseating bile rose as she heaved.

She felt fingers pulling back her hair as she emptied her stomach, leaving her weak. Clinton lifted her up, feeling her tremble.

Rory arrived and dismounted, taking Tiffany as Clinton remounted. Rory saw her bloodstained cheeks where her tears cut paths through the clotted blood. His eyes traveled over her bloody shirt. He handed her up to Clinton with a question in his eyes.

"Relay my excuses. I'm heading back."

Tiffany sat across his lap, locked in the shelter of his arms before a small fire which burned in the hearth. She rested her head against his shoulder, feeling him kiss the top of her brow, her eyelids, and the tip of her nose.

She was clean, warm, and safe. She drew up her knees, which poked out from under the lawn shirt she wore. Clinton casually caressed her bare legs. She sighed.

A soft knock on the door interrupted the silence, and Clinton called out, "Enter." Surprisingly, Mortimer and Germane entered, a look of concern etched across their faces. Mortimer placed a tray of brandy and glasses near the chair. Germane poured out two glasses while she stole looks at her mistress.

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

Clinton shook his head.

After the servants left, Clinton picked up the glass. "Here, Princess, take a sip." Dutifully Tiffany obeyed, and Clinton turned the glass to where her lips touched and drank as well.

Tiffany moved her hand soothingly over his chest. The feel of his hair-roughened chest gave her a sense of security and she felt safe. She accepted another sip of brandy, feeling its warmth spread into her limbs.

She leaned her head back against his arm, watching him finish the brandy. Feeling her eyes on him, he looked down and smiled softly, brushing a newly washed tress from her forehead. "Feeling better?"

She nodded her head and softly said, "It was horrible. All the blood. The poor thing was all mangled and ..." She stopped, turning her head in to his chest, and began to cry softly.

"I know, Princess, it's all right now. Hush, love. You're safe now," he whispered soothingly.

She lifted her tearstained face to him and asked, "You don't think I am childish, do you? I just--"

"Hush, love. No, I don't think you childish, quite the contrary." He smiled and continued, "I knew about your aversion to the kill. I even know about your aversion to eating meat."

"How did you know?" she whispered.

"I love you. I made it my business to know all about the woman I love."

She snuggled against him, then remembered how every meal served always offered two entries, one meat, the other fish. She remembered all sorts of things--her breeches, the saddle, her bonbons, her violets. Things she took for granted, things no other, not even her father, had bothered about.

She moved his hand over her legs to caress her thigh, then travel over the triangle of curls, where it rested intimately. She lightly touched her tongue to his chest, circling his nipples.

Clinton's fingers moved till they found the source of her pleasure and began to caress her. When she lifted her head, he covered her mouth and stroked her till Tiffany was aware of only the pleasure she felt, and all images of the hunt disappeared.

Clinton rose, carrying his precious bundle to the bed, where he laid her down and joined her. Tiffany welcomed him with open arms and parted thighs and he reared over her, entering her slowly, finding her moist and ready for him.

He made sweet, gentle love to her, after which she fell asleep.

He lay back against the pillows on cradled arms, his mind and body weary. He closed his eyes, waiting for the much-needed sleep to claim him. His mind drifted over the recent events.

He felt Tiffany move close to him and snuggle against his side, then sigh. He smiled, for she had come to trust him, feel safe with him, and love him.

He cradled her against him, feeling her soft, silky skin. He felt her burrow closer to him for warmth. His thoughts drifted pleasantly as he prepared to sleep. She had given her love and heart to him. He'd known enough women to know, when a woman spoke, to listen to what she said with her eyes. He listened and saw moments of love and moments of lingering doubt. He was not discouraged, for he knew her love to be tenuous and fragile. Time and the child, and there was no doubt after this weekend there would be a child, would make it stronger and take deep root.

Before he drifted off to sleep, his last thoughts were that it would take a bit more time for her to lose any thread of doubt, any question of betrayal, and then all that remained was for Tiffany to admit she loved him above all else. This step was a step she must take alone.

Tiffany stood at the open window, clad in Clinton's shirt. Lifting her cup, she drank the sweet hot chocolate.

It was eleven in the morning and she had risen hours before and had drawn the curtains, shielding the bright sunlight from Clinton, who slept deeply.

As she placed her cup on its saucer, her eye caught a sheet of paper under the napkin. Her fingers lightly touched it. Then she picked it up, opening it. It read:

Tiffany

I missed you at dinner and hope all is well. I had hoped to speak with you more but I am departing this eve. Perhaps I will call on you in England. Until then, have care. I wish you the best.

Fondly,

Alan, Marquess Thurston

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. She brushed it away with the back of her hand and lifted her eyes up as if to prevent the fall of more. Her dreams planned so long ago drowned with her unshed tears.

The note slipped from her trembling fingers, floated to the floor, as did her girlhood dreams of yesterday.

The world at this moment seemed unkind, unfair. A thousand "what ifs" crossed her mind. What if she had never left England, never met Clinton, never saw Alan again? What if time and circumstance had been different? Then, perhaps--but it didn't matter, for all the "what ifs" could never alter the present.

The fact of the matter was, destiny had taken control of her life, and few were masters of their own destiny. She was not one of the few, nor was Alan. The strong, ruthless ones turned the hands of fate to make their own destinies, and Clinton was one of those few.

And now it would seem her future lay with him. She had fought it, but could no longer deny she had come to love him. But was she more to him than a possession his ruthless nature desired, sought, and gained? Was she just another treasure bought and paid for to add to his worldly possessions? Nay, her mind screamed in self-loathing.

God, she had to believe him and believe he did not lie, nor betray her love.

The sound of stirrings brought her out from within herself and she turned to see Clinton move onto his back. A soft smile touched her mouth, she felt her spirits lift. As she moved toward him, she closed the door to a past that had remained open for so long.

Tiffany padded softly toward the foot of the bed, where she stood gazing down at Clinton. Her eyes traveled over his powerfully built chest, covered with a crisp black mat of hair, down to where it veed at his waist. Her eyes scanned the handsome, strong planes of his face and settled for a moment on his mouth, which she knew curled as if always on the edge of laughter.

She smiled her love at his sleeping form and thought how boyish he looked as a lock of hair fell onto his forehead; he was truly a magnificent man! Just looking at him, she felt stirring in her belly, a pleasant ache beginning in her center. She marveled over the effect he had on her even while he slept. She felt a need, as if nature called, to feel him inside of her.

Her fingers moved, working the buttons of her shirt, her eyes never leaving him. He stirred, causing the sheet to fall, exposing the lower half of his groin. His manhood rested in the nest of dark curls there; flaccid against his thigh. She marveled at its size and shivered in anticipation. A moistness began to flow within her and she lost herself in carnal images. She worked the third button with fingers that shook, and stopped, hearing voices in the drawing room.

Without a thought to her attire, she crossed the room in purposeful strides, opening the door and entering the sitting room. Closing the door behind her, she turned to lean protectively against it and came face-to-face with Richilieu.

Germane and Mortimer gasped at seeing their mistress scantily attired in front of Richilieu.

Richilieu let his eyes appraise the delightful form.
Mon Dieu,
what a captivating picture she makes, he thought.

Remembering she was a duchess, and refusing to be daunted by his leisurely appraisal of her or knowing grin, Tiffany asked with as much dignity as she could muster, "Richilieu, is there something I can help you with?"

Smiling suggestively at her question, he remarked, "I came to inquire if you and Clinton would be attending lunch. You have missed breakfast and--"

Not allowing him to finish, she replied, "How kind of you, but we will be unable to attend. Perhaps your chef could make a tray?"