Edith Layton (16 page)

Dinner upset Brenna even more. Rafe’s family managed to shock her into silence. Rafe didn’t say much either, except to grunt answers when asked a direct question. That wasn’t often, or near often enough for a son who’d been absent for years and had just brought home a new wife, Brenna thought with indignation. Instead, his family made themselves the center of attention, performing for their visitor’s benefit—or distress. They joked and teased. But the teasing had a hard and cutting edge, with everyone a victim except for the speaker at the moment.

“It’s their manner of courtship,” Rafe told Brenna, as her eyes widened again at something humorous and cutting the marquess said to his wife, and she slashed back at him wittily.

“They’re terribly amusing,” she managed to say.

“Yes.
Terribly
’s the right word,” Rafe muttered.

Brenna learned much about the family as she listened, appalled. The marquess was indolent, selfish, cold, and inattentive to his family. His wife was
flighty, vain, and two-faced. Their eldest son was jealous, trivial, and spent too much money on himself and his many unworthy flirts. Or at least, that was the gist of their jokes at each other’s expense.

But when they said things to imply Rafe was secretive, rough mannered, and unattractive, Brenna rose to the bait and leapt to his defense.

The second time she did it, Rafe put his hand over hers. “There’s no point to it,” he breathed softly, as his mama laughed at a clever rejoinder Grant came up with. “You only play the game.”

She realized it as he said it, and nodded. So it was a game, one that accompanied dinner from the soup to the fish, growing nastier and more pointed as the meat and poultry were borne out of the kitchen by straight-faced servants. By the time desserts were brought in, the trio’s smiles were like snarls, but the terrible joking went on. Brenna wondered that anyone could eat in such a climate. It seemed to whet their appetites. Even Rafe ate and drank stolidly as he listened. She was the only one who couldn’t.

“Ah, our new daughter is watching her figure,” the marchioness commented when she saw yet another full plate being taken from in front of Brenna.

“It’s so she can be sure we gentlemen will watch it,” Grant said, with a wolfish grin.

“You’d think a fellow with pretensions to polish could come up with something more original,” his father drawled. “But I agree.”

“They say Byron dined on vinegar and potatoes to turn the trick. Shall we order up some for you, my dear?” the marchioness asked Brenna sweetly.

“But she is perfection!” Grant said. “She has no need to starve herself as some older ladies have to do.”

“Yes, but even we don’t exert ourselves to such lengths. We leave that to you gentlemen,” his mama snapped.

“Come, Rafe, have you ordered her to whittle herself down to nothing?” his father asked.

“No,” Rafe said.

“But look at her plate,” Grant mused. “Untouched.”

Brenna knew there was too much untouched that they didn’t imagine—yet. She couldn’t let the subject go on. At the very least, she realized her appetite and weight would be the theme of many future jests if she didn’t throw them off the track. She smiled, though her hands knotted in her lap. “I usually have such a ravenous appetite!” she protested. “And the food looks delicious. But even the scent puts me off. I don’t know—since I woke this morning, I’ve been feeling oddly bilious. And yesterday morning as well!” she remarked with much feigned surprise, blinking her eyes. “Remember?” she asked Rafe innocently.

He blinked, then grinned. He reached for one of her hands and took it in his own. “How could I forget?” he asked. “I may not be an oil painting, but few women have woken, looked at me, and then cast up their accounts!”

There was a silence at the table. The obvious rude rejoinders the others could have made froze on their lips.

The marquess was the first to recover. “Good God!
Don’t tell us you’re about to make my dear lady a grandmama! How charming, Sylvie. How sweet for you to so soon become a dear old lady. Who would have guessed? Surely not you. Shall we call you ‘Gamma’ from now on? And order up some lace caps for you while we’re at it? Or would you prefer a kerchief for your graying locks?”

“Or would you care for a walking stick?” she shot back at her husband. “I can see it now—the old man of Arrow Court, hobbling out to sit on the lawns to watch all his many grandchildren playing at his arthritic feet.”

“A chased silver walking stick, at least, one hopes,” Grant commented with a chuckle.

“And with Rafe’s dear old perennial-bachelor brother standing nearby,” his father said, “still wondering why he never found the perfect mate he said he was always searching for.”

Brenna didn’t have to fake the blush she felt rising to her cheeks. “Oh my! I didn’t mean I’m expecting a babe,” she blurted. “It’s far too soon for that!” She pretended flustered shock at such an interpretation of her words, realizing the idea of such an early pregnancy was sure to be misconstrued, resulting in even worse taunts from this family. “An inn we stopped at on the way here, the Swan, had terrible food,” she said. “I still haven’t recovered.”

“Oh, the Swan?” the marchioness said with relief. “How bad of Rafe to take you there! But isn’t that just like him? He learned nothing here. He hasn’t a hint how to suit a lady’s needs.”

“Whereas I have one, my dear?” her husband asked. “Why, thank you—that’s not your usual song.”

“In your expertise about inns, yes,” she shot back. “We weren’t discussing a lady’s other needs.”

“How refreshing. A new topic,” Grant said. “Am I to hope we’ve quite exhausted your complaints about those other needs?”

“But we can’t discuss your needs, my boy,” his father said with a sweet smile. “We can scarcely keep up with them, can we?”

They forgot Brenna as they made fierce fun of each other. Brenna looked at Rafe, the pity and the question clear in her eyes. His hand tightened over hers. “Later,” he said. “I’ll tell you later.”

But first she had to endure the ordeal of a private interview in the salon with her new mother-in-law as the gentlemen shared their port in the dining room, as was the custom.

The lady had a lot to say about her family. Any attempt to absolve Rafe was ignored, so Brenna sat back and listened to her mother-in-law prattle on about the deficiencies of men in general. Suddenly the marchioness stopped, as though struck by a thought. She looked at Brenna and asked confidentially, “My dear, don’t misunderstand, please, but I must know! Is there Spanish blood in your family? Or Moorish? Even some Gypsy who enticed an ancestor along the way? I mean some distant ancestor, of course. Because you look so—foreign.”

“There are those who think Wales is another country entirely,” Brenna said, laughing. “My papa
often says so, because his Viking ancestors didn’t venture that far west. My mama can trace her family back to Llewellen and claims she’s a princess, many times removed. You must meet her; she’s very tolerant of foreigners too. She believes the English are alien because they’re latecomers to her homeland, you see.”

Her mother-in-law didn’t ask her another personal question. Still, Brenna was relieved when Rafe came into the room. After a few moments, he rose and stretched out a hand to her.

“Come,” he said gently, looking into her eyes. “I’ll take you for a stroll in the moonlight before bed, my bride.”

It was such a loverlike thing to say that Brenna colored up and stared at him, amazed. She rose as though sleepwalking and took his hand. His parents and brother were mute as statues as he led her out of the salon, down the hall, and out the door.

The moon was indeed full and bright. It cast the white house into ghostly relief; the long drive shone out of the dark like a white ribbon in the silvery, shadowed night. The wind blew soft, scented of brine. They strolled, the only sound the gravel crunching under their feet, crickets thrumming in the fields, and the wind in the tops of trees that grew beside the path.

He stopped beneath an ancient oak and let go of her hand. The moonlight made his hair the color of any man’s. Without the distraction of its hue, Brenna could at last see the stark attraction of his hard masculine face. Moonlight was her best light too; she
knew it. She’d been told her hair and skin tones suited her as well as the moon fit the night sky. She lifted her face, parted her lips, held her breath, and waited for his next move.

But he wasn’t looking at her. He was gazing over her head, back at the house, his lips tightened. “Sorry to make such a mooncalf of myself, and a spectacle of you,” he said bitterly. “The one thing they fear is emotion. It was the only way to get you out of there. There’s no sense going back until they’ve gone to their rooms. We’re a tempting target for them. Come, it’s a bright night, as light as dawn. I’ll take you on a walk, show you some things as long as we’re already here.”

“Oh,” she said, hesitating, swallowing her disappointment and embarrassment for what she had thought. “Fine…as long as we’re already here.”

He paused. “I never asked. Are you afraid of the dark?”

“No,” she said sincerely. “Of many things. But not that.”

“Good,” he said, catching up her hand again. “I thought I’d take you in the morning, but a man must seize the time he’s given. That’s now. Come, I’ll take you to a tomb and introduce you to a ghost. It will explain much.”

T
he mausoleum stood alone on the hillside, facing the sea. It was made of the same stone as the Court, but the solitary tomb was not the same style. It was a perfect square, squat and functional.

“The man who sleeps here built both this and the Court,” Rafe explained as he unlocked the gate that enclosed the mausoleum. “Ancestors added the wings on the house, windows and porticoes and such. The Griffin would have scorned them. Sir Griffith of Arrow Court, the founder of our line,” he explained. “They called him ‘the Griffin.’ He was a warrior. It was safety he built for, not pride.”

He paused because Brenna did. “Are you afraid? He was buried here centuries ago. It’s just him and his lady. The others preferred the churchyard. I suppose he wanted to be near the Court, to protect it for eternity. We don’t have to go in, you know. I just
wanted to show you the place when I told you about him, and my family, and me. But it’s not necessary to go inside. We can stay here. Or go back to the house if you want.”

He seldom talked so quickly. Brenna straightened her spine. She didn’t like the idea of going into a house of death at any time, much less in the dark of night. But it was obviously important to Rafe. So it was to her. She laughed. It sounded lost and lonely. She lowered her voice when she spoke again, to suit the emptiness of the night. “I’m not afraid,” she said, “only puzzled…There
is
a lamp inside?”

Now he laughed. “Yes, and I’ve brought a tinderbox. Come, there are no ghosts here that aren’t in the main house. Or my life.”

He unlocked the door to the mausoleum. He lowered his head and stepped inside. A moment later Brenna saw a leap of light as he lit some lamps. She felt foolish after she took his hand and stepped over the doorsill. It was comfortable inside, with nothing of death or despair to be seen. It smelled of the sea and the pines that dotted the hillside. The light, from two braziers on the walls, was a warm wash of red-gold, illuminating the place. It turned the white stone walls and floors rosy as dawn.

There wasn’t much inside the spare little house. There were two small, high windows and a small altar with two ancient stone caskets on either side. Both bore carved gray effigies, warmed to mottled copper by the leaping light. The stone lady lay on her stony pillow, her arms crossed on her granite breast. The warrior lay in the same pose, in full armor, his
pennants and banners carved all around him, his faithful stone dog guarding his pointed stone toes. It was hard to read their features; they’d been carved by ancient craftsmen, and the years had blunted whatever details there might have been.

“The Griffin,” Rafe said, indicating the warrior’s casket he paced around. “Here he lies, where he lived after he won this place. ‘A faire and juste Knight,’ as it says here. So they all say, even to this day. He won at the lists, at the jousts, at the quintain. But he was no parlor knight. He didn’t spend as much time here as he wished. The king sent him abroad to Crusade for his honor. He did. So. Here he is—the founder of the Court, and my bane.”

Brenna’s head shot up. She stopped examining the tomb and stared at Rafe.

“Yes, well,” he said, pacing. “The thing of it is, Bren, that I’m not his get. Or probably not. It’s the not knowing that keeps my parents’ relationship so nicely honed and sharp. My coming here makes it worse for them, I think. At least, I can’t believe they’d still live together if they ate away at each other like this every day.”

“Some people—some couples—they like the cut and thrust of argument,” Brenna said. “I know it’s not the same, but back at home there’s a farmer and his wife who delight in embarrassing each other, in telling everyone how bad the other is. Mrs. Cuddy will complain to anyone that her husband never bathes. He tells everyone she’s cold as ice, and her cooking jeopardizes his life. And you should hear what he says when he’s in his cups! But Lord help
anyone who tells them something bad about the other! It’s just the way they are.”

Rafe kept pacing. She spoke faster. “Mr. Cuddy once told my father it spiced up his life—”

“Possibly, possibly,” Rafe muttered. “At times it seems so here too. But the truth is…” He leaned against the Griffin’s sepulcher and fixed Brenna with a solemn blue stare. The torchlight leaped, showing the tense set of his face as he spoke.

“Mama is flirtatious,” he said with a shrug. “Always was. It was her trademark in her youth, and enchanted everyone, including my father. They were distant cousins whose parents urged the match. They weren’t sure. But when they met again as adults, they married in haste. They were mad for each other. Still, they battled from the first. Everyone says so. Even Grant remembers it. I wasn’t yet born when one day after a terrible fight my father picked up and moved to London. She stayed here, plotting revenge, as she told my father she would.”

He levered himself up and began pacing again, his head down. “We had a neighbor, to the west. A wild young man, a ladies’ man, petticoat-mad. He cut a swath through the women in London, keeping opera dancers, debauching servants, cuckolding husbands. He kept busy by gambling away his fortune when he wasn’t seducing females. Pockets to let, he was finally called home by his furious father. Once here, he proceeded to do the same, of course.”

Brenna had never heard him tell such a long story. Or with such frustration and sadness in his voice.

“Mama was beautiful and flirtatious. The young
man was reckless and bold. It was natural they’d meet. What they did after that is the problem. We don’t know. But my father heard of the friendship.” He looked up at Brenna and gave her a rueful grin. “She wrote to tell him of it, actually. He came home, vanquished the enemy, just as the Griffin would have done in his day. Maybe not. No head rolled. But at least he succeeded in evicting his rival. The young man rode away, off to the Continent this time. Where he died at the hand of another jealous husband, in Calais, I think it was. At any rate, he didn’t get far in France. But the thing of it is that he may well have done here.”

“Well, but—” Brenna began, seeking words to offer him solace.

He cut her off. “The young man was a redhead, Bren. Fire in the Thatch, they called him. Hotheaded, hot-blooded, and indisputably redheaded. Like me. And unlike my father, my mother, or my brother. Or either of the two infants she bore my father before me, who died in infancy. I was the last child she had. My birth ended her ability to bear more. I’ve always wondered how much more my birth forced her to bear.”

He shook his head. “My mama’s a creative liar, and always was. So her protests of innocence impress no one. Did she betray my father? Was it only with a kiss? Or more? Or me? There’s no way to know. But that’s why I’ve always known I was the seed of their discord. Or rather, that redheaded young man was.” He laughed, “And of half the folk in the village as well, as you saw.”

He looked at her fully, his face stark. “If I knew for certain that I was a bastard, Bren, I’d never have offered for you, or any woman. But the thing of it is, I don’t know. And never shall. Are you angry I didn’t tell you sooner?”

“I’m angry that you think it would matter!”

He frowned. “Of course it does. It colored my whole life—and that’s not just a pun,” he added with a tic of a smile. “The minute I was born and they saw my head, they hoped it was a trick of the firelight. Then they hoped it was only baby hair and would change to gold as my brother’s had. Then they knew it wouldn’t and my fate was sealed. So I was told. And so, I promise you, I was made to know. I’ve always been an intruder here. My friends saw it. I knew it. I couldn’t wait to leave. I didn’t love school, but it was better than here. As was the army. Any place where I could be judged for myself was better. So don’t tell me it doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t,” she said simply. “Not to me. I don’t care. If that redheaded rogue was indeed your papa, you certainly didn’t inherit more than your hair from him. You’re not a ladies’ man. You’re not a gambler or a cheat.”

“Perhaps because I knew he was?” he asked quizzically.

“Maybe, but if we all could subdue our desires so easily, what a better world this would be. You’re a warrior, Rafe,” she said firmly, because she knew truth when she spoke it. “It’s in your blood. Whoever fathered you, it’s clear that the Griffin is more in your line than anyone else in your family!”

He stared at her.

“Well, but look at me,” she said angrily. “Dark as a Moor, or a Gypsy, and so your mama was pleased to tell me. All my life I’ve been told I was exotic, not very British, and who knows what! And the men! Gentleman and commoner both. Always looking at me as though they expected me to do wonderfully improper things with them because I looked so erotic. I mean, exotic,” she said, her cheeks flushing darkly. “Yes, well, there it is,” she said indignantly, her eyes flashing in the firelight like the Gypsy she’d been called. “I know about my reputation in my own village. Half of it’s because I was once engaged, true. But most of it’s because of my looks. So what are looks, after all?”

“You look like others in your family, Bren,” he said. “I’d wager on it. What about your ancestor-loving mama? You’re her image.”

“Well…” she said, stumped, because it was true.

“But as for the ‘erotic’ part,” he said, with a slow smile, “oh, I do agree. Definitely. I can’t wait to show you the truth in that too.”

He came to her and looked down at her. He touched her hair, marveling at the tints of red the crimson firelight wove in it. “The torchlight makes us twins,” he mused. He cupped her cheek in one large hand. “I can’t wait to make us man and wife.”

It had been a difficult night. He wondered if she was as appalled as he was by his family, as shamed as he was by his confession of doubts as to his paternity. For a fleeting moment he thought of what Annabelle’s reaction to this wild night would have been. He wondered if he’d have told her about the
circumstances of his birth at all. He had the ridiculous but uneasy notion she might have even enjoyed his family’s bright, barbed quips. Brenna had clearly been dismayed. But she’d borne up under it. He was proud of her, awed by her spirit, humbled by her defense of him. And again, lured and intrigued by her sensuality.

He grazed her lips with a featherlight kiss, almost an inquiry. She put her arms around his neck in answer, and smiled, her upturned lips trembling with suppressed emotion.

She felt his need, and knew it transcended that of his body now. He gripped her closer and kissed her as though he would devour her if he could. She clung to him, seeking the center of the storm of emotions she was feeling. She found it, and more, and cast her inhibitions to the winds. She answered his tongue with her own as her hands linked around his neck and she pressed her body against his.

He raised his head at last and took a deep breath. He moved away an inch, merely holding her in the circle of his arms. She could feel a fine trembling in those arms.

“Bren, my love,” he said in a shaken voice, “any more of that and we’d attempt something here that ought not to be done in a fellow’s final resting place…though I don’t know that the Griffin wouldn’t love it. He was just that bold…” His smile vanished. “As was my mama’s redheaded lover,” he added bitterly. He shook his head as though to clear his vision. “Come,” he said, taking her hand. “Enough of the past. Let’s begin our future.”

He put out the lights, locked the door and the gate. Hand in hand they paced back to the house in the stillness of the night. The silence between them was not an easy one. It was filled with growing passion. They both knew what they were walking back to find, at last.

Brenna exulted. He’d said “my love”! It might only have been a common endearment, said without thinking. But it was the first she’d ever heard from him. It was enough. He’d married her in haste, as his parents had wed. Not because they’d been mad for each other, as he said his parents had been. But maybe just because of that, their friendship had time to grow. She knew their passion had. She didn’t care whose son he was. She only wanted to know whose love he was. Now, tonight, at last, Brenna thought, her entire body tingling from just feeling her hand in his, it might come to pass that he’d forget his dainty lady, and only want and love her.

They entered the house and walked quickly, wordlessly, through the hall—and almost into Grant, who stepped out of the salon and greeted them.

“Well, so what did the Griffin have to say for himself?” Grant asked pleasantly. “Too bad we don’t have any amusing family legends about him greeting new members of the family as a test of their worthiness. But he is a jolly old soul, isn’t he?”

Grant’s pale face was flushed. His eyes glittered; his breath was redolent of brandy. Rafe faced him, keeping Brenna’s hand tight in his.

“Yes, too bad,” Rafe said tersely. “No amusing legends, no test of worthiness. But they wouldn’t
involve me, would they? Not being a member of the family, after all.”

Grant’s eyes widened. He whistled and put a hand up, palm out, as though in alarm, although keeping a careful grip on his brandy snifter with the other. “So! You told her. You revealed more than the Griffin’s skeleton, did you? Well, what of it? Only an otherworldly test could prove a thing, and Griffin won’t give it. So the only proof, if there is any, is in the tomb—here or in Calais. Or in the vault of dear Mama’s memory. And that, as we both know, changes to suit the breeze. I don’t think even she herself knows anymore.”

“She knows her sons have no business discussing it,” his mother said angrily, stepping out of the salon to confront them.

“But who better, my dear?” her husband purred as he followed.

“Indeed,” Grant said with a tight smile, “who better? Who else had to constantly hear about his brave, bold younger brother and how much heart and courage the fellow had. So unlike himself. And so very unlike his father…or like him—who knows?”

Rafe frowned. “‘His brave, bold brother’? I never heard that.”

“Oh, but his father did,” the marquess drawled. “I mean, of course, I did.”

“I merely commented on his war record, now and again,” the marchioness said stiffly, glowering at her husband. “What you choose to construe is your own problem.”