Edith Layton (17 page)

“We chose to construe all that was unsaid every
time you read the war dispatches aloud at the table,” Grant said with a fixed smile that had no humor in it. “Which was every morning. We chose to construe it from all that was said every afternoon and evening too, whenever the subject of courage, or honor, or worth came up. How charming for us to know how you valued it. Especially since you obviously only discovered it in your second son.”

“How charming it would have been if I’d known!” Rafe said, his eyes bright.

“I wasn’t discussing you,” his mother snapped, “so much as the lack of those qualities elsewhere in your family.”

“In which family, my dear?” her husband asked silkily.

Brenna gasped. Rafe heard the tiny sound and turned to her.

“I’m very tired,” she said in a tiny voice. “Would you mind if I went to bed?” She didn’t belong here. She did, she supposed, but didn’t want to. These people fed on each other. She couldn’t listen to them as they crowded around Rafe like jackals and stripped him to those poor disputed bones of his.

“Right,” Rafe said, nodding. “You’ve traveled hard today. Excuse us. We’re to bed. Good night.”

“Ah yes. It’s not that long since your wedding night,” Grant said, his eyes traveling up Brenna’s tensed form and down again.

The implication was clear. So was the intent in Rafe’s expression. He glowered at his brother. Grant blinked and stepped back. Rafe nodded again. “Good night,” he said firmly.

“Good night,” his mama replied with a thin smile, derision in her tone. “I hope you sleep well. I’ve put you in the bridal chamber.”

Rafe took Brenna’s hand and led her up the stair. They were both acutely aware of the others standing in the hall, their gazes following them. When they reached the upper hall, they heard laughter coming from the hallway below.

“They weren’t angry at each other,” Rafe said to Brenna’s look of shocked surprise. “Or at least, no more than usual. They’ll slice each other up and down awhile longer. Then Grant will ride off to the village to whatever poor idiot female he has in keeping right now. My parents will be stimulated enough to go to their bedchambers together, close as new lovers. I’ve seen it. It’s how it is with them. Don’t let it bother you.”

“But it bothers you,” she protested.

“But I’m used to it,” he said, as he showed her into the bedchamber and closed the door hard behind them.

Brenna saw the tight set of his shoulders, the way he’d grown silent, how he prowled the room unseeing, his expression too carefully blank. She glanced around the bedchamber. It was all in shades of peach, gold, and green, with an ornate ceiling in the style of the Adam brothers. Fat naked cherubs chased each other through rosy clouds there, cavorting around an overly endowed Venus receiving the attentions of an obviously ardent Mars. It was clearly a bridal suite, and very handsomely furnished. She wished she were anywhere but there.

His family might be elsewhere, but she could almost feel their leering cruelty. After the way his mama had spoken to her and his brother had looked at her, Brenna felt assigning them this chamber was a mocking comment on her sensual looks and hasty wedding. They lived far from London and obviously hadn’t heard all the rumors, and she was heartily grateful for that. She looked at the high bed heaped with silken coverlets and slowly removed an earbob, wondering what to do next. Much as she wanted to know her new husband, she suddenly felt a pang of despair at the thought of sharing the act of love with him here. Because surely anything to do with love would be corrupted here.

Rafe paced. He finally turned a despondent face to Brenna. “Right,” he said. “You’re right. I can’t be used to it.”

“That’s good,” she said. “That’s very good.”

“Right. Well,” he breathed, “I’ll change in the dressing room. It’s late.” He strode to a door and then turned. “Bren? I know I’ve been bucketing you around the countryside since you told the vicar you’d have me. I’ll wager you regret it now. First a filthy inn, then this place, which makes you feel dirty in another way. It means more traveling—but I’d like to leave again, as soon as we decently can. Say in another day or two, so as not to give them more to talk about? If they want to see us again, they’ll have our direction. Do you agree? I don’t think anything good can come of us staying longer.”

“Oh, Rafe,” she said on a sigh of relief, “yes. Please.”

He smiled and left her. She undressed quickly, washed from the pitcher and bowl on the dresser. Then, after hesitating for only a second, she braided her hair in a long, shining night braid. If he wanted it loosed, he could do it himself. If she did, it would look too much like she wanted him to. She no longer knew what she wanted, except to comfort him. She wasn’t sure how to do that here.

She drew on a nightdress as fast as she could, glad she’d refused to take a maid with her on this strange honeymoon. Leaving the lamps burning, she slid into bed and lay back, as relaxed as the stone lady she’d seen in the tomb.

It was a while before Rafe appeared again. She was surprised to see he hadn’t undressed. He’d removed his jacket but not his shirt, his boots but not his breeches. He padded over to her in his stocking feet and stood by the bed. He chuckled and shook his fiery head.

“You look like a nun, not a Gypsy, tonight,” he said, eyeing her plaited hair, white shift, and white face. “Go to sleep. I’ll lie beside you. But only that, tonight. I’ll leave on my britches and keep a coverlet between us. Even though you look as eager to love as to have a tooth drawn, I’m afraid that’s eager enough for me. Just the sight of you is enough for me,” he muttered. “But not here.”

He sat on the side of the bed. “Bren,” he said, and she heard a new note of pain in his voice, “I’m not sure that’s right. But I do know it’s not right to even pretend love in this place. Gads!” he said, raking a hand through his hair. “I don’t doubt they’ve got
someone at the keyhole! No,” he said wearily. “They’ve more taste and cunning than that. They just make me feel as though they had.”

He bent, touched her lips with his, and whispered, “I want you. Never doubt. But I don’t want us tainted by them. In any way.”

Her breast rose and fell in a deep sigh. She smiled up at him. “Yes,” she said, “thank you. I feel that way too.”

“But don’t smile at me like that. I have my limits,” he said.

She didn’t know if he was joking or not. He tucked her under the coverlets and then lay beside her and took her in his arms. She could hardly feel the outline of his body, but she could feel the tension in it. He settled her head on his shoulder and stroked her hair. “Sleep,” he whispered. After a few moments of her senses twanging like harp strings, she relaxed.

In the end, they slept in each other’s arms like weary children.

And woke feeling closer to each other than either had ever felt to any man or woman. Though they hadn’t shared their bodies, they knew they’d shared something even more intimate. They couldn’t say it, since neither of them was sure what exactly it was. They could only, each in his or her private heart, hope it was enough to see them through the next days.

“T
he Griffin?” Grant said when Brenna asked about him the next day. “Half of what you hear of his exploits is true. It must be. He’s folklore as well as family. Everyone hereabouts sings his praises still. A hard man to live up to. I’ve always wondered if that’s what sent you to the army, brother.”

Rafe snorted. “Of course. I wanted to learn to tilt and joust too. Just as well. The French were keen jousters, you know. Thank God for my training or I’d have taken more than saber cuts in Spain. I’d have fallen in all my armor, on the wrong end of a lance.”

Brenna grinned. She’d come to appreciate Rafe’s humor, to see that his bluntness concealed a lively sense of the ridiculous.

She rode with the two brothers this morning. There was a heavy gray mist, but it was clear enough to see the property Grant was showing them. Now
they sat their horses on a cliff-top, trying to see the rolling sea beneath. All they saw was more fog rolling in.

“No,” Rafe added seriously, “I wasn’t trying to ape the Griffin. The army suited me. If only because I wasn’t cut out for the church and, as second son, I had little other choice.”

“You acquitted yourself well,” Grant said. “You won honors and respect, and almost lost your life while you were at it. You’ve still got the use of your arm, I see. That’s good. Whatever my sins, brother, I did worry about your recovering that.”

Rafe flexed his shoulder and winced. “Yes, I kept it. Days like this, I’m not so sure I should have insisted on it.” He glanced at Brenna. “It’s a rare old sight. You should see it,” he said wryly. “Rather, you shouldn’t. Scars from one end to the other. But it’s still attached, and it works, though with difficulty on days like this.”

Grant turned his head; one eyebrow rose as he looked at Rafe. Rafe’s eyes widened, then he looked at the sea with fierce concentration. Brenna frowned, not understanding their silent conversation. She replayed the one they’d just had in her head—and felt herself blush.
It’s a rare old sight. You should see it. Rather, you shouldn’t,
Rafe had said.

Rafe had essentially said she’d never seen his naked body!
Well, but perhaps he doesn’t undress when he makes love. He didn’t when we almost did the other night,
she thought,
which is a pity, but perhaps gentlemen don’t. How am I to know?
Her spirits lifted.
And so
w
ho is to know what Rafe does in his marriage bed if I
don’t? Certainly not his brother
.
Not if I don’t make a fuss over it, at least.
She put her chin up. The subject was turning as unsettling as the weather was.

“The mist’s getting awfully solid,” she said, to change the subject. “Do you think we could continue this tour when the sun comes out again?”

“Next month?” Grant jested. “Of course. You’re right, it’s starting to rain. Let’s get out of the weather.”

They rode back to the stables. Rafe excused himself so he could see Blaze was properly rubbed down and stabled. “Peck is good with the lad, but he’s off to the village, they say. I know I treat Blaze like a prince,” he said, “but he treated me like one in his time, and deserves it. I’ll join you shortly.”

Grant walked back to the house with Brenna. She gathered up her hem to keep it from the mud, and gathered up all her courage at the same time. She was hoping to leave tomorrow, which meant she might not see Rafe’s brother alone again for a long while, if ever. Hard as it was to ask him a personal question, his parents were impossible to talk to. She seized the opportunity to ask him the thing that had been troubling her since she’d woken that morning.

She paused as they reached the steps to the front door, and spoke before they went up them. “Grant?” she asked. “There’s a thing I wonder if you could tell me. This redheaded man Rafe told me about—the one…you know. The one there were so many rumors about. What did he look like? I mean—apart from the hair?”

Grant halted. He looked down at her, amusement
and respect intermingled in his expression. “Brave girl! You mean young Rufus? The redhead? Mama’s flirt? The baronet’s wicked son?”

She hadn’t known the name, but she nodded.

“Well, he wasn’t Rafe’s double, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he answered. “I was only six, but that much I can tell you. In fact, he was a strange type to be such a lady’s delight. I thought him merely amusing. He was that, very much so. Even in his looks. I think he was as successful as he was with women simply because they didn’t expect him to be such a rogue.

“As to how he looked to me?” Grant asked, pausing, one boot on the stair. “Any grown man is tall to a boy, but he was particularly so, lanky and loose limbed with it. The most conspicuous thing I recall, the thing everyone remembers, is his color, of course. He was like a setting sun—a blaze of orange hair. His complexion was high too, what you could see of it beneath all those tan freckles. His eyes? I see that question on your lips. Sorry, I don’t remember. But it’s been discussed. Hazel, they say. Not Rafe’s color. That would have been too easy.”

“Nothing’s easy for Rafe, is it?” she asked sadly.

“Nothing’s easy for anyone here.” His voice was unexpectedly harsh. He heard it himself and looked for a moment ill at ease. It was such a strange expression for him that it caught Brenna off guard. That in itself made her distrust him. This wasn’t a man who was often unprepared. His handsome face was always cool and composed. It was quickly so again.

“I don’t hate Rafe, you know,” he said. “Or even
dislike him. It’s merely that it’s difficult to know him now. I had little opportunity to do so before. I was away at school when he was born. I saw him when I visited here. But the years are a gulf. And the family is not close…” He chuckled. “The sea is not dry,” he murmured. “But in truth, I envy him. Not just because of you, my dear,” he added, with a mock flirtatious glance at her. “Acquit me! I had to say it, didn’t I? No, I suppose I envied him for his brilliant war record, as well as for how he neatly found ways to keep away from here all these years. And because Mama did speak as though he was her favorite, and was constantly lauding him. And I feel sorry for him because she never did when he was here.”

“And your father?” Brenna dared to ask while he was in this strange confiding mood, with none of his sharp edges showing.

“My father?” He shrugged, in a gesture very like Rafe’s. “Who knows? He’s a man of fewer words than Rafe. And those usually spoken with irony. Gods! But the fellow loves irony,” he said, his eyes going distant, his mouth curling with distaste. “What he does say is usually addressed to Mama. When he concerns himself with us, it is to amuse himself, I think. Otherwise he only speaks in order to engage my mother in one of their constant double-edged personal dialogues.”

His eyes focused; he looked at her again. “You wonder why I stay on here. I don’t. I tried London. I tried the Continent. I came home. I will doubtless leave again. Both of their sons are rolling stones, I think. Perhaps Rafe has found his resting place now.
Gads! I didn’t mean that to sound that way,” he laughed. “But as for Rafe, understand me well. I do
not
hate him.”

“But you admit things are hard for him?”

“Of course,” he said too lightly.

“I mean,
especially
for him,” she said with a touch of anger.

“Well,” he said more seriously, looking down at her, all humor fled, “you can change that, can’t you? If not the past, then the future, surely?”

She paused. Then she nodded, more pleased with him than she’d been since they’d met. “I can try.”

But she was thinking of changing everything, if she could.

Brenna left Grant in the hall and went to her room to change her clothes. The mist had saturated everything; her riding habit was as damp as a used handkerchief, and any breeze made her shiver. There had been blowing mists outdoors; the ancient house had drafts wafting down its long corridors. No wonder Rafe’s old wounds ached!

Brenna stripped off her clothes and toweled herself ruddy. She put on a warm gown, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and immediately sat at the desk in the corner of the room.

Rafe came into the room soon after. He paused, seeing her seated, writing.

She looked up. “A note to Mama,” she said, “to tell her how I am, and how things are going.”

“You think that’s wise? If you’ve got time to write
her a note on the third day of your marriage, what is she to think?”

“That I’m a good daughter, because I promised her I would,” she explained. “I wrote to her every day in India. It keeps us closer. And now I’ve a particular, somewhat delicate question to ask her that I don’t think anyone else can answer.”

He froze. “
Circumstance
has kept us apart,” Rafe said with some difficulty, “I thought you understood.”

Her head went up. So did the heat in her cheeks.
“Men!”
she finally laughed. “No, not about
that
. No, something Grant said about your ancestor set me thinking.”

“Which ancestor?” Rafe asked.

She put down her pen. “The most recent one. The redheaded man you think might have been your father. I would never betray a confidence,” she said quickly, “but you said everyone in the village knows. Do you mind if Mama does?”

“No,” he said, though he looked cornered, on edge, on guard.

“Well, then,” she said briskly, “who better to know about ancestors than my mama? If a warrior came within five feet of her family five hundred years ago, she knows of him, I promise you. And not only her ancestors. She’s a historian, in her own way. I thought to write and tell her about the Griffin, as well as young Rufus.”

Rafe’s eyes glittered, but she went on. She’d learned from her father that things not named were more terrifying than things you knew. She thought it
might be that way with things that embarrassed you too. “Something Grant said—about colors—is nagging at me. He said Rufus was carrot topped. But you’re not. Your color’s russet. May I tell her everything and ask her about that?”

He relaxed. “Russet? Carrot? You ask if you may split hairs…literally?” he asked with a smile as the truth of the old adage in his case occurred to him. “Why bother? If there was any proof, I would’ve been disowned years ago. Or absolved. Don’t worry about me. I’ve lived with it long enough to accept it. But if it troubles you, do as you will.”

“I’d like her opinion. So may I?”

“Of course,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll change my clothes. I smell like Blaze and feel like a landed fish. I’d forgot how it is here when the sun is gone.”

She bent to her letter again. So far as she was concerned, the sun never shone here; it was a place of mists and ghosts, and cruel memory.
Only another day,
she told herself, and wrote on, hoping the letter might pave the way to a brighter one.

The day they left Arrow Court was a bright one for Brenna, even though storm clouds raced in from the sea. Rain dashed against the coach window, blurring her last look back at the Court as she and Rafe drove away.

The sulking mists had been blown away. A freshening wind from the west kicked up; an autumn squall was coming. Rafe’s parents had warned them
of the coming storm. “Then we’d better hurry and get on our way,” he’d said, refusing their offer of another night. “It’s a popular inn. They won’t hold our rooms if we’re late.”

Now they were in the coach, leaving. Brenna’s spirits soared.

“I hope the roads don’t turn to mud,” Rafe said, looking at the sky. “I’m sorry I rushed you out, but I thought you wanted to leave.”

“No,” she said, “I
yearned
to.”

“Thank you for your courage and understanding,” he said seriously. “It can’t have been easy. Damme! What a honeymoon I took you on. I’ll make it up to you. Where would you like to go now? Where do you want to be?”

“I’d like to be in one place, with you,” she said. “You name it, and that will be my place.”

He looked a little stunned. Then he brought her gloved hand to his lips. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.