Wolfsgate (9 page)

“
ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE ALL RIGHT
?”

“Stop worrying, woman!” Brandon laughed, throwing his head back for an instant.

He had insisted they ride their horses to the cemetery at the village church this morning. He stole a look at Justine who galloped behind him and grinned. Justine’s lungs squeezed as she urged her horse faster behind Brandon. He had slept deeply the night before, and this morning he had even eaten breakfast under Justine’s sidelong glances.

She had been poking at the wheat cake and jam in her dish earlier, her throat having long since constricted when he had made his entrance into the dining room, freshly dressed and ready for his day. He had murmured a good morning and actually filled his plate at the sideboard with bread, ham, a wedge of cheese, and a cold fillet of beef, then sat opposite her at the table, his demeanor relaxed. Her back had been stick straight and her fingers curled into fists as he took his seat and consumed every last morsel like a famished wolf, wiped his mouth, and rose from the table. She’d held her breath while he closed the distance between them.

Brandon took her hand in his and kissed her cheek. His lips had lingered by her mouth like the illicit touch of a feather. He pulled back slightly and gazed at her. She had blinked up at him, her body utterly still as his seawater eyes had bathed her in their softness. He’d brought her fingers to his lips sending shivers through her hand. The final flourish was when his knuckles stroked the side of her face as the edges of his mouth had tipped up into a slow, warm smile. Then he strode from the dining room, taking her breath with him. Even now, remembering it made her lightheaded, not only for his gentle, sensual touch, but because this new Brandon rarely smiled.

That wasn’t a mere good-morning-and-thank-you-for-breakfast smile.

Last night she had indulged in some brandy, then fallen asleep at his side. She had woken up when the first glow of dawn had hit the parlor, their bodies curled up together in blankets on the Persian rug. But the stiffness in her upper back was not the only ache shooting through her. Her chest stung with the memory of the sensual fever of hours before. Never had she experienced anything of that physical intensity. That sort of craving was passion, was it not? That was far, far beyond any of the dramatic romantic novels she had read or what she had gleaned from the womanly chats she had overheard among the servants and the tenants. It was also far beyond the brief kisses, warm glances, and hand-holding she had once shared with Andrew.

This was quite different, this passion with Brandon.

Her insides still vibrated with the heat she and Brandon had generated together. The recollection of his enflamed body shuddering and finding release in her arms, his moans filling her ears, his hands caressing her breasts, his lips nuzzling her skin, his carnal mumblings in her ear, his warm, masculine scent…all of it rushed through her. All of it hypnotized her still.

Although she didn’t feel ashamed about the incident, she did feel awkward. As she had sat in the dining room over breakfast earlier, a breakfast she had absolutely no appetite for, she wondered if Brandon would even remember it? Or would he ignore it? Perhaps even worse, he might comment on it flippantly or tease her? All these possibilities froze her insides. But then he had proven her so very wrong. His pleasant mood, his delicate show of affection for her before he left the dining room, along with that scorching look in his eyes and that knowing smile—oh, he remembered. He had liked it.

And so had she.

Maybe today would be a good day for her to try to explain everything with Richard and William to him, and hopefully gain some measure of his trust. She urged her horse faster and finally caught up with him. Moments later they entered the outskirts of the village where the old stone church and cemetery were located. He took the reins of her horse, and his large hands slid about her waist and pulled her close as his sober eyes studied her face. His fragrance, a scent which reminded her of freshly washed linens having dried in the breeze, drifted over her, and she bit the inside of her cheek.

She was unaccustomed to a man assisting her. She was also unaccustomed to a man constantly staring at her as if he were trying to read her mind or make sense of her. Brandon seemed to have no awareness of discretion now, no filter for the finer points of appropriate behavior. He did or said just as he felt in that moment, be it a wry observation or an unabashed and penetrating gaze. She didn’t find it unsettling, though; she found it rather intriguing.

Brandon took Justine’s arm, and she led the way behind the ivy-covered stone church to the gated cemetery. The stone angel, blackened and discolored with age, loomed over the family tomb, eyes gazed heavenward, her wings outstretched behind her. As a boy she had frightened him. Her face was one of victory and hope, his father had explained.
“She should be an inspiration to you.”
Yet Brandon had been alarmed by her austere expression.

When he had been forced to bid his mother a bitter farewell, he was sure the angel was mocking him. His beloved mother now belonged to that angel, not to him. Was she frightened by the angel as well? His lips had quivered, his hands in tight fists at his side. He hated that statue. He hated the baby that was stuck in his mother’s womb, leaving her body bloody and torn instead of bringing them great joy as she had promised him over and over.

Justine removed her gloves and reached out and touched the smaller stone angel at the side of his parents’ grave. This more delicate figure was draped over in grief over a smaller headstone engraved with the name
Anne Treharne.
Justine placed the roses she had picked earlier this morning into the grieving angel’s hands and stroked its weathered stone fingers.

Brandon’s gaze went to his parents’ names engraved in the massive stone:
Jeremiah Treharne, Caroline Treharne
. He exhaled heavily flexing his hands at his sides. A sharp ache unlike anything he had ever felt before pierced his heart and scratched over his skin.

Justine moved closer to him and slipped her small hand into his. Brandon immediately entwined their fingers and pulled her close to his side, blinking back the wetness filling his eyes. They stood together in silence for a long while.

“He did not suffer in the end, Brandon,” she whispered. “I was with him his last days. He slept mostly, then one morning, very early, left in his sleep.” Justine opened his palm and placed a small hard object in his hand. His eyes constricted at the glint of gold.

“Father’s ring? Where did you…?”

She pulled on the silken drawstring of her small, beaded reticule. “Lord Graven gave it to me. He asked me to keep it safe for you until you returned. He knew you would return.” Brandon swallowed past the lump in his throat. “He insisted that he would have known if you had died. He assured me you would be back.” His wet eyes met hers, his cold hand tightened its grip on her warm one. “And here you are, Brandon. Just as he knew you would be.”

He let go of her hand and slid the antique gold ring inscribed with a medieval “G” on his finger.

“Shall I leave you for a bit?” Justine asked. His eyes had liquified into molten pools of grey-green and rested on her. Brandon nodded slightly.

She moved forward and laid her hand over Lord Jeremy’s name and closed her eyes.

“Rest now, my lord,” she whispered. Justine retreated from the gravesite and moved towards the horses.

“Justine?”

A familiar male voice filled the crisp autumn air, and her feet doubled back. Andrew Blakelock, Amanda’s brother, stood before her. It had been over two years since she had last seen him and not under the best of circumstances. Last she had heard he had left England to travel on the Continent some time ago.

Justine bowed her head. He removed his hat and bowed before her. His blue eyes and blond hair shone brightly in the sun. She cleared her throat and smiled back at him. Andrew darted forward and took her hand in his, planting an enthusiastic kiss on her skin, then glanced up at her and grinned. His familiar bergamot cologne wafted over her, and Justine rocked back slightly. He released her hand, but not before his thumb caressed the spot where he had kissed her. Andrew took in a deep breath as his eyes drank her in.

“It’s so very good to see you again, Justine,” Andrew said. “I hear Brandon is back. When William’s father arrived at our house there was quite a to do.” His clear blue eyes danced over her.

“Yes, Brandon survived the shipwreck after all.” Justine looked away from his warm gaze. She stepped back two paces trying to avoid the waves of eagerness and expectation rolling off him, but it was no use, no use at all. She clasped her hands. “He had been in hospital in London, unknown to us all this time.”

“How extraordinary.”

“Yes, very extraordinary. Luckily our own Dr. Langham happened to be visiting at that hospital and recognized him.” She blinked up at Andrew. That old comfortable familiarity between them rose up, but Justine pushed it away. Here was the kind, fine gentleman who once held her affections. The attractive young man she had once yearned for, the one who had been forbidden to her, the one whom she had cried over. Now he finally stood before her once again like he had done in her dreams. But that dream came true too late. Now there was only a sinking, ripping feeling in her stomach.

“Yet, Justine, you remain at Wolfsgate with Brandon?” His handsome blue eyes widened over her as if searching for a clue to an unexpectedly difficult puzzle. But Justine had no answer. Her mouth opened, but she could not will her voice to function. Her brain could not form words, logical words to answer his most logical question: Why she, an unmarried young lady, was living at an unmarried gentleman’s house who was not a blood relative instead of being with her stepfather and stepbrother.

Andrew moved closer to her, his face blocking the sun’s glare from her vision. “Forgive me for seeming forward.” He lowered his voice, a blond eyebrow lifting. “But how can that be if your stepfather is now at ours? You must come as well, surely?”

Justine’s gaze darted over at her and Brandon’s horses feeding on the grass in utter contentment. Dear Lord, just the thought of her living with all of them at Crestdown was so dreadful, so strange, so truly awful…

“Justine?” Andrew’s pressing voice squashed her spiraling thoughts. “Are you assisting your step-cousin in some way?”

“Yes, I am,” Justine said. “He remains still rather weak, and he is somewhat ill. I could not—”

“Oh, I see, yes, of course.” Andrew tossed his head back slightly and his lips curved into a brief smile. “Very kind, indeed. One would expect nothing less from you.” His eyes glimmered over her. “It’s just that I was surprised that William said nothing regarding your absence when he saw his father yesterday, but Amanda and I were quite taken aback. Therefore, I thought perhaps I would offer you my assistance in some way, in order to expedite…” He tilted his head at her. “Dash, Justine! It’s wonderful to have bumped into you this way. I planned on coming by Wolfsgate this afternoon in any event.”

“Mr. Blakelock, that is most kind of you. Truly.” Andrew’s brow furrowed at her formality. “However, I must tell you—”

“Justine?” Brandon’s deep voice resonated behind them. Her breath caught and she turned on her heel. He stood a few feet away from them leaning on his cane, his head cocked to the side, a scowl darkening his face.

“Brandon, you remember Andrew Blakelock?” said Justine, her mouth completely dry. She swiped a stray lock of hair from her brow and forced her body to move to the side.

“Of course.” Brandon remained still. His eyes narrowed in the glare of the sun.

“Graven.” Andrew bowed his head.

“Mr. Blakelock was telling me that your uncle arrived safely at Crestdown,” Justine said.

“I’m so relieved,” Brandon said, his cold gaze hardened on Andrew. Justine knew Andrew couldn’t possibly understand the snappish tone in Brandon’s voice like she did.

A smile brightened Andrew’s face.

No, he definitely did not understand.

“And I was just saying we were, of course, expecting her as well, now that her stepfather is living at ours.”

A query lit Brandon’s eyes. The edges of his lips tipped up. “I don’t understand. Why would you think Justine would follow Uncle Richard?”

“Well, it’s just…that…” The smile faded from Andrew’s lips. His round eyes shot to Justine’s pleading for assistance.

“Why would Lady Justine leave my house, Blakelock?” Brandon’s voice cut like a knife between them. “When she is my wife?”

Justine froze. There it was, for the very first time, Brandon’s acceptance of their marriage and his public declaration of it. Andrew’s face turned different shades of grey and white as he shifted his weight and looked away. Brandon’s stony gaze remained locked on Andrew, his scars tightening over his face, his fingers gripping his cane.

“You…are married?” Andrew asked. One of Brandon’s eyebrows quirked, and Justine averted her gaze towards the horses once more. “I did not know,” he muttered. “Forgive me.”

“My cousin and my uncle did not tell you?” Brandon emphasized his words slowly as he moved towards Justine. “How odd.”