Heather Graham (39 page)

“Pierce!” she cried softly, turning in to him, searching out his eyes. “I know your anger. I can’t know all that you went through, but I feel your hatred and your bitterness. I longed to kill him at Anne’s funeral. To cast all caution to the wind and leap across the abbey to cut his throat. But Geoffrey kept me steady, for it would have done no good! Pierce, you can’t come to England seeking only to cut his throat—”

“I will kill him,” Pierce said, his arm cast back, his gaze upon the ceiling.

Once again, the way that he spoke was absolutely chilling.

“You’re missing the importance of my point here,” she told him swiftly. “You can’t kill Jerome at all! You have to prove that he is guilty of the crime, and that you are innocent.”

His eyes shot to hers like mercury. “Jerome has to die!” Once again, she felt as if she could not reach him at all.

She caught hold of his fingers, dragging his hand to her cheek, gently rubbing against it. “Milord! He has to die by justice! He tricked us all with cunning. We must trick him back with cunning. Fury and righteousness will not serve us well at the moment.” She smiled, tenderly kissing the roughness of his hand. “Treachery will!”

He sighed, then smiled, watching her. “I hadn’t intended to go marching right in, announcing my arrival to the king. I always meant to try everything in the world to prove myself innocent.”

“Thank God,” she murmured.

“And then call him out and kill him if all else failed!”

“We can’t let it fail!” she cried. “Pierce, I lost you once. I cannot do it again.”

Her voice stirred him deeply. Touched the guilt in his heart for the way that he had misjudged her. Touched the longing in his soul that had lived there day and night for so very long.

He rose on an elbow, bending low over her, brushing her lips with his kiss. “I will not leave you again,” he promised her.

“Then—”

“We’ve a long ocean voyage to plan our revenge,” he told her.

Again his lips touched hers. The taste was nectar. He cupped her cheek, and kissed her again. Then he watched his fingers move over her breasts and her belly. His eyes met hers.

She shook her head.

“What now, my love?”

“Well,” she murmured, “I
am
upset about the other woman.”

A sharp oath escaped him.

“And,” she added regally, “you think that I am supposed to forgive you that easily! Think of all the torment that you put me through! I think I said something once about the fact that if I were ever to forgive you, you must grovel for a hundred days, upon your knees, and you did say that you were willing to grovel—”

“I certainly did mean to try! I never said a duke had the ability to grovel easily.”

“And duchesses do not give in easily, either!” she promised.

“You want me on my knees again?” he demanded.

“Well, yes, I would enjoy it, I believe.”

“Fine!”

He was down upon his knees. But Rose realized too late that it was not to grovel.

“Forgive me!” he whispered, but there was the lightest touch of laughter in his words. And before she knew it, he had caught hold of her ankles, jerking her down to him, her legs parted around him. And he began to touch and caress her, making love very slowly and determinedly to acutely sensitive regions of her body, her breasts first, her belly, her upper thighs, between them.

She protested at first. Murmuring that he was not exactly offering an apology. But she swiftly forgot what she was saying.

Because he loved her, and had never really loved anyone else. Because the sweetest of sensations were ripping hotly through her and because she could not bear the pain/pleasure anymore.

She tried to rise against him. Touch him. Stroke his arms, his back. Touch his shoulders. She nipped into them gently with her teeth, washed over the breadth of them with her tongue.

Met his eyes, and smiled.

And died a little when he sank into her, part of her again.

And as he did, his whisper touched her ears. “Forgive me, my love!”

And it was enough. She forgave him with all her heart.

Moments later, they were still entangled, gasping for breath, content to lie close within each other’s arm. She felt his silver gaze and she smiled. “Well, you are almost forgiven,” she told him primly.

He grinned, pulling her closely. “Almost! You had best take heed, Duchess. That’s as far as I’ve groveled in all my life.”

“You’ve a very different manner of groveling,” she assured him.

“You didn’t like it?”

“Oh, I did, I did!” she whispered. “Still, something a little more traditional, like your head bowed upon the ground, would be nice.”

“If I bow my head upon the ground,” he warned, “you’ll be on the ground, too.”

She lay her head against his chest, smiling in the shadows. They hadn’t broken his arrogance. She didn’t think that she minded so terribly.

His fingers moved through her hair. Then his hands were on either side of her face. “Once again! With all my heart, lady, I do beg your pardon!” he said fervently.

She inhaled sharply. She met the passionate silver in his eyes. “With all my heart!” she said softly. “I give it.”

He scooped her into the tender caress of his arms. “Rest then. We’ve an early morning ahead of us, and the dawn is nearly breaking.”

She lay against him, the softness of her hair like silk over his bare flesh. Her cheek rested on his chest, and the ruffle of a copper lock tickled his chin. He smoothed it back. “Ah, Rose! How I longed to be with you,” he murmured. “In all my life, I swear, I’ve never known greater beauty, inside or out.”

He paused.

“Rose, I love you,” he murmured.

He waited for her response, but received none. He stretched awkwardly, trying to look down upon her.

She slept. Her lips parted, curled into a small smile, her face so very beautiful, and so peaceful. She hadn’t heard what he had said.

He smiled tenderly. He let her rest.

They had a long voyage ahead of them. A voyage into truth.

ROSE HAD NEVER IMAGINED
that she could be so happy, so content.

The weeks at sea had been beautiful ones. The weather had held for them, clear and balmy, and during the long days it was wonderful just to sit out on the deck, lazily feeling the sun and the breeze caress her cheeks. In all her life, she had never been on a more beautiful voyage.

Maybe the sky had always been so soft blue, maybe the ocean equally as cobalt, perhaps even the sun had shone so brightly before.

Or perhaps the sun that now touched her was different, and different because of Pierce.

When he was aboard a ship, Rose thought, he was her captain. He had given that duty to Niemens, but every morning he was at the helm right along with Niemens, and they did little but discuss the sea and sailing every time they came together. They were old friends, Rose realized, and she was happy.

She was happiest, however, to see Pierce with his son. She had never imagined that a man like Pierce—all muscle and fierceness and business—could be so exceptional a father. He loved to lie in the great bunk in the captain’s cabin with his little one crawling on top of him. He would pick Woody up, dangle him above his face, and have him shrieking with laughter, time and time again. He was eternally patient helping to mash little bits of food for Woody, and he didn’t seem at all disturbed when little bits were spit into his face.

Had she not been in love with him, she could have forgiven him anything anyway, just for the look in his eyes when he watched his son.

So upon the high seas they had those wonderful days, lying together in the sun while Mary Kate and Jennie saw to Woody, and playing with him themselves.

Then there were the nights, and the nights were exquisite. When the sea was velvet blackness, and only the dim candle and lantern lights of the ship filtered down upon them. Then she would watch him come into the cabin.

She would watch the clothing fall from his broad shoulders and to the floor.

And she would begin to grow warm and tremble, waiting, anticipating …

And he would come to her, his naked flesh burning against her own, and hold her, and make love to her.

Bit by bit, he talked about the awful days when the Spaniard had held him.

Bit by bit, she told him about the anguish of thinking him dead, of pleading with the king just to see that his name was cleared, of finally deciding that she must come home, and there find the strength to return to England.

In each other’s arms, in that velvet darkness, they shared many things.

“Father was really wonderful,” Rose told him. She sighed. “My father is a good man, a truly good man. He didn’t come up with all those tasks for you, you know.”

“Of course not. You did,” he told her with amusement.

She leaned up on an elbow, seeking his eyes in the darkness. “And, Pierce! I’ve a surprise for you!” she said. “Father did know! When we were leaving, he kissed me on the cheek, and then he winked and told me to warn my husband to take care!”

Pierce folded his hands behind his head. “I’ve a surprise for you!” he told her, smiling, his teeth flashing very whitely in the night. “Your father knew long before we left! He sent me up to your room.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Oh! And you let me think that—oh! I should tear your hair out, right now!” she informed him in an indignant and lofty tone. “I should—”

“Yes?” he inquired huskily.

“I should do terrible things to your body!” she cried.

But he was laughing, and she was in his arms, and his voice was very deep, and husky, and sensual, and it alone sent a shower of hot tremors shimmering throughout her. “Come, my love, do terrible things to my body. I’m waiting, and ready!”

And she quickly forgot about her father until the next day, as it turned out.

And then they discovered that a ship was following them. It was Pierce’s ship, the DeForte ship he had taken himself, with his own crew aboard.

And amazingly, Ashcroft Woodbine was aboard that ship, too. Pierce gave no pretense of not knowing his father-in-law. He looked sternly at Ashcroft as the man waved and demanded to be taken aboard the
Lady May.

“What do you think you’re doing, man?” Pierce demanded.

“There won’t be a thing wrong with a father escorting his daughter back to England,” Ashcroft said firmly. He wagged a stern finger at Pierce. “You’re dead, you must remember. I can do some protecting of Rose that you cannot! And, my fine fellow—you can’t go marching straight into England as you are.”

“I don’t intend to go as I am.”

“Then how do you intend to go?” Rose queried, worried now herself.

Pierce rubbed his chin. “I’m going as a monk.”

“A monk!” Ashcroft hooted.

Pierce stared firmly at his father-in-law. “I will follow Rose off as a brother from the Llewellyn Monastery, returning from a trip abroad, spending time now in the DeForte household. The cowls worn by the brothers are hooded. I intend to grow my beard the rest of the time that we are at sea, and I should pass well enough.”

“Aye, if they don’t get a good look at your eyes!” Ashcroft said.

“It won’t work!” Rose insisted.

“It will work, because I’ll be staying out of sight,” Pierce promised her.

She was still very worried. Ashcroft joined them on the
Lady May,
leaving the other ship to return to Virginia to await further orders.

They discovered that Ashcroft had bribed Pierce’s crew with land grants from his own holdings if they could just get him to the
Lady May.
With a pleased grin, he informed Pierce that the whole lot of them were now colonials.

In bed, Rose, still very worried, tried to hide her fear. “I think I like you much, much better as a servant,” she told him, trying to laugh. But then her voice grew grave. “I could order you to clean stalls and groom horses all day long, and then you’d never fall into any danger.”

He kissed her lips. “I will be careful,” he promised her. “Honestly, Rose. I need to follow you to court. I need to discover what has happened in my absence. But I will be careful, I swear it.” He drew her hand to his heart. “Hear the beat!” he whispered. “I swear it—for you!”

But she was afraid. The weeks on the water had been bliss.

Too soon, they approached England, and sailed the ship around to London by the Thames.

To Rose’s relief, they rode first to Castle DeForte. There, in the darkness of night, they arrived. Garth and Geoffrey and all of his household greeted Pierce with a stunned amazement.

“Old friends, it is me, I assure you!” Pierce said softly.

The two men were like blubbering infants, first skinny old Garth hugging him fiercely, then massive Geoffrey doing the same. All of the servants greeted Pierce with a love and loyalty that warmed Rose’s heart.

Then Geoffrey and Pierce closeted themselves in Pierce’s accounting office so that Geoffrey could tell Pierce anything he knew about Jerome’s activities.

Ashcroft made himself right at home, finding himself a suitable room—as the grandfather of the new little Pierce DeForte. Her father, Rose thought, was having the time of his life in a way.

Yet he was also worried about her, and she knew it. She loved him dearly for that worry.

She tried to get Woody settled, but found that she was going to have some trouble there. Mary Kate and Garth were firmly at each other’s throats.

“I’ve had the young milord DeForte in my keeping for nigh unto a year now!” Mary Kate informed Garth loftily. “I shall see to his sleeping arrangements!”

“You do as you wish in your heathen colonies, woman, but in England the Lord DeForte has his own room, and that’s the room the lords have always had and always will have!”

“Heathens! Man, the babe is not quite a year old! Now, there’s a fine nursery right off the lord’s bedchamber where it seems Their Graces sleep—”

“Where do you bloody think they’d sleep, woman?”

Rose decided that she had best wave an olive branch of peace between them. “I do think that Woody would be best in the nursery right now, Garth,” she said gently. “Just for a few months more? That way Mary Kate or Jennie can attend to him quickly in the night, and milord DeForte need not awake.”