He looked at his feet, twisted his fingers. “I want to call her Mary.”
“Mary? Not Fluffy or Princess?”
He lifted his gaze, staring straight through her with an intensity no boy his age should possess. “Mary was my mother’s name.”
“Oh.” Vivian could think of nothing else to say. Her heart ached for the sadness of his words, for the loss he endured. She knew nothing of his mother or what this woman meant to Lord Ashworth. But it was clear that her son wanted to honor her in the only way he knew how.
She rose from her chair and pulled him against her. He leaned into her then wrapped his arms about her waist.
He sniffled. “She’s dead, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. I don’t know anything about her. But you can tell me about her if you like.”
Harry stepped back from her and shrugged. “Maybe later.”
“Certainly.”
He climbed up onto the stool and crossed his legs. “Where are your mother and father?”
Her throat tightened. “My mother is staying with a friend, keeping her company. My father…” She looked down at her hands, remembering the sting on her palm when she’d slapped him. She could accept the horrible things he did to her, the things he forced her to endure. But she could not tolerate what he had done to her mother.
“Where is he?” Harry was looking up at her expectantly.
“He—he is back at home, I suppose.”
“Oh. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. Want to see something?”
Vivian nodded.
Harry opened his mouth and pushed his tongue through the opening where his two front teeth were missing. “Now watch this.” He twisted his tongue and it did it again.
She smiled. He certainly had a way of lifting her spirits. “That’s quite impressive, Master Harry. You are very talented.”
He beamed. “Do you want to come see the new baby? Cook is having a time trying to find something to feed her.”
“Baby Mary should be okay without food for a few days. After that, tell Cook to give her some beetles and grass.”
“Why don’t you tell her when you come downstairs? I can show you how pretty she is.”
Vivian gave in to the impulse, and brushed her fingers through Harry’s hair. “You’re not supposed to be talking to me, remember?”
He frowned. “Papa is being so silly.”
She sat beside him on the footstool. “What is his concern, Harry? Do you know?”
The boy shrugged a shoulder, looked away from her. “He thinks someone will take me away from him.”
Vivian’s breath caught. Why would Lord Ashworth believe that someone would take away his own son? Did it have something to do with his talk of being a monster?
A door slammed. They both lifted their heads.
“I think your father has gone into his bedchamber. You’d better go.”
Without hesitation Harry leapt up and hurried over to the secret passageway. Before slipping behind the tapestry, he turned back to her. “Can we visit again?”
She wanted to tell him that it was a bad idea. That she feared Lord Ashworth would truly send her away if he learned of their interactions. And yet, she also longed to spend time with the boy, to give him comfort and peace.
Besides, he was the only sign of hope for this house.
“We’ll find a way. Now go take care of little Mary.”
He gave her a toothless smile and disappeared.
Rage seethed inside Ashworth, twisting and snapping like hapless branches caught in a tempest. He ripped off his jacket, then his shirt. Then, bent and yanked off his shoes.
He wished he had brandy but the only drink was his nightly potion, sitting on his table as a final salvation.
Ashworth spun away from it and instead stared into the fire, bracing his palms on the mantle. The red and yellow flames popped, licking their way up the stone.
The heat warmed his face, fueled the blaze already aflame in his blood.
It was enough that he’d endured the agony of having to tell his son about his mother’s death. For days, he’d relived what he could recall of that night. Even now his stomach cramped at the memory of waking up on the floor of Mary’s room, blood covering him, a knife shimmering in his outstretched hand. When he sat up and looked toward the bed…
Ashworth swallowed the bitter taste of bile surging up his throat. Had he truly killed her and not remembered? He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to recall what happened before he fell unconscious, but he could only recall screams and the distant sound of crying.
Sweat collected on his forehead, dripped down his back. But he did not move. Instead, he breathed in the hot air, tasted soot and despair.
Catherine had come to him in the grand hall tonight, just after he’d come down from telling Harry good night. He could tell from the twinkle in her eyes, the smug grin, that she was up to no good. And sure enough she wasted no time in making his life a worse hell. Rumors had reached her ears, she said, rumors of the manor’s secrets.
Ashworth growled, wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. He yearned for a swift ride upon Demon’s back, one fast enough to burn through the agonizing frustration in his veins. But darkness had descended along the slopes of Briarfell and he’d not chance injury when Harry needed him.
He clenched his fists. But more than Catherine, it was Vivian who tortured every fiber of his being.
How he wanted her. At times the urgency swelled in his blood, crashed against his groin and drove him mad with desperation. He had to force himself to resist lifting her skirts and driving himself into her.
He glanced back at the night table, to his escape. However, his gaze was drawn to the side door, where light glowed beneath the wood.
He yearned to cross over that threshold but forced himself to remain by dropping in a nearby chair. He was riveted to the shadows passing by in her room.
Was she in that thin nightdress, her pink nipples poking through the fabric? Was her hair unbraided and wild about her shoulders? Did she truly long for him the way he longed for her?
Ashworth swallowed. His erection throbbed against the trouser buttons, begging for freedom. He brushed his fingertips across the rise, a tingle raced down his legs.
He was mad. A beauty was in the next room, freely giving what he so desired and here he sat touching himself. If only he could believe she truly wanted him, that she did not offer herself to further her purpose.
She knew how badly he needed release. Would she stoop to using that feminine power to bring him to ruin?
Still, he licked his lips, thoughts of her hands on his staff. For so long he’d wanted. For so long, he yearned to free the power at his groin.
He stared at Vivian’s door, his fingers brushing over his erection the way she had done it the other day. It was far more thrilling when it had been her hands on him.
A shadow fell across the light and then a quiet knock.
Ashworth stilled. He wiped his forehead, thrust a hand through his hair and sprawled across the chair.
She would not see him weakened.
He cleared his throat. “Enter.”
The door squeaked open and Vivian slipped inside the room. She wore a pink robe, loosely hanging over her white nightdress. Her hair was undone, just as he hoped, and spread across her shoulders.
The sight of her slightly dimpled chin and succulent lips dried his mouth. How he missed kissing them!
“My lord.” She stepped forward. “I have something I feel the need to discuss…” Her voice died away as she spotted the swelling in his trousers. She swallowed. “Perhaps…perhaps I should come another time.”
Ashworth raised a brow, curled his lips. “This is a perfect time.” Only in her loveliness would his anger and frustration dissipate.
Vivian gently nibbled her lip, took another step forward. Her gaze raked over his legs then up to his bare chest. “I-I heard you moving about in here and wanted to discuss…I don’t like the idea of keeping certain things from you…”
She lowered herself to the chair opposite him, her back straight, her jaw tense, but her eyes burned with a raw hunger. The robe slipped from her shoulder, allowing him to see her breasts more clearly. A nipple peeked through the soft cloth.
A jolt ricocheted through his body. His tongue itched to taste her. He shook with need.
He would wait. Tonight he would determine if this was a planned seduction or if she truly desired him, scar and all.
She blinked. Her cheeks flushed to a most pleasant hue. Her fingers twisted the fabric at her lap.
“Go on.” He smirked, actually enjoying seeing her discomfort. She so often presented herself in control, sure of herself and the situation, that this unease rather delighted him.
She studied her hands. “I believe this would not be the best time to have this discussion.”
Ashworth acted on impulse. He dropped to his knees before her. The scent of honeysuckle swirled into his bloodstream then cast him on a river of pleasure.
Vivian’s eyes widened, her lip trembled.
He ran his hands up her thighs. “I’m willing to listen, Miss Suttley. Unless you would rather do something else at this moment.”
Her breath caught. Her muscles tensed beneath his hands. Slowly, her eyelashes lowered.
How he hungered to kiss her. If he went there, all control would be lost. Instead, he lifted the hem of her clothes, then trailed his fingers up her calves.
She whimpered.
He continued along her silken skin, over her knees and up the tops of her thighs. Vivian arched her back, her nipples straining against the nightdress.
Ashworth swallowed, clenched his teeth. Fire scorched his blood.
He reached the flare of her hips and rubbed his thumbs around her waist. Vivian threw her head back, her mouth parted.
Lowering his hands to the soft fluff of hair, Ashworth bit back a growl. She wiggled, tightened the muscles in her bottom, lifted her hips up toward him.
He wanted these clothes off of her. He wanted to see her naked, spread before him. As in his study, intense lust rose up and choked him, compelled him to slide her toward his waiting desire.
Her words from his study echoed in his brain: I prayed throughout that intimacy would draw out his tenderness. Instead I saw the true character of his savagery.
Was
he
a savage, like the monster who took her?
Ashworth sat back on his heels, his hands slipped out from beneath the fabric.
Vivian opened her eyes, stared at him. Passion made her gaze bright, but could he trust her intentions?
“Why are you here?” his voice was raw, husky with desire.
“I told you. I wanted to discuss a matter with you.”
He lifted himself to the other chair again. “No. Why did you stay when you knew my intentions?”
She blinked. “Your intentions?”
Ashworth raised an eyebrow and glimpsed down at the outline of his erection.
“Ah.” This time she grinned. “As I have told you before, you torture me.”
“How do I know you are not truly seducing me, hoping that by finding your way into my bed, I will grant you the marriage you seek?”
Amazingly, she laughed. “I will admit to you that was my intention at the start. But now…”
He drew in a ragged breath. “Now?”
“Now I find myself having the most alluring dreams. I find myself melting in your embrace, aching for your kisses, desperate for your touch.”
“What of your experience before?”
Vivian lowered her eyelashes. “I have told you that I am not a virgin. My maidenhood was lost to a young man who wanted to marry me. I’m not sure I truly experienced pleasure with him, but neither was it an unpleasant encounter.”
“And what of the other man, the one who hurt you?”
“’Tis true that he assaulted me in a variety of painful ways, but he did not ever penetrate me. His true possession, he claimed, would come after we were officially wed.”
She lifted her gaze again, searched his face. “Since the moment you first kissed me, my body has not been the same. My blood flows hot, my skin yearns for your touch, wicked thoughts plague every waking moment.”
His entire body trembled. Could it be true? Could she actually desire him?
His chest tightened as he recalled the last few times he’d enjoyed her treasures. Would he ever be able to have her or would his gruesome visions destroy everything?
Ashworth watched, breath trapped within his lungs, as Vivian stood from her chair. Her eyelashes lowered as she slipped the robe off her shoulders, letting it drop to a pink puddle at her feet. She stepped closer.
The scent of honeysuckle eddied from her skin. He breathed in deeply, filled his blood with her feminine aroma.
His fleshed pulsed in a dangerous rhythm.
The corners of her mouth turned upward as she untied the ribbon at her neck. Was she was stripping herself naked?
Ashworth clenched the armrests of the chair. “Miss Suttley…Vivian…”
She raised a finger to her mouth, shushing him. Her nightdress slipped down one of her arms, exposing a pink-tipped breast. He licked his lips.
Vivian came up before him and stopped like a Greek goddess at his command. His eardrums whooshed with a frantic heartbeat, his veins scalded with heat. The urge to snatch at her hips jolted through him. But if he stroked her now…
Her fingertips touched his legs, sending a shiver up to his groin. He gasped as she lowered to her knees on the floor.
“Vivian, what are you—?”
His words died away at the sight of the smooth curve of her shoulder gleaming with the fire’s blaze.
Dancing flames reflected in her dark eyes. His mouth grew parched.
Weightless hands smoothed up his thigh.
Ashworth caught his breath, held it tight. If he but let it go…
Strong fingers enclosed around his erection.
“Faith, Vivian!”
His head fell back, eyes closed. Her motivation for seducing him was lost to the whirling sensations, lost to the pulsing ache in his chest. He needed her touch. Needed it in so many ways.
The restrictive pressure against his arousal was suddenly gone and then her fingertips brushed his bare flesh.
Ashworth clenched his teeth, gripped the armrests until he thought they would break with his strength.