Beguiled (6 page)

She lifted her head at the sound, newly
animated. “Gladiator!” she cried joyfully. “What a pleasure it is to see you again.
I have missed you.”

“I wager you have missed the horse more than
its rider,” muttered Branson as he lifted her to the saddle. Privately, he was
glad for anything that buoyed her spirits.

The orderly fussed with strapping the case
over Gladiator’s haunches until Branson took over the task and sent the man
away.

Clara rubbed the horse’s sides. “This dear
boy has never lied to me or given me cause to doubt myself. Gladiator is a true
friend.”

“I have never lied to you, Clara. In fact, I
gave you every reason not to trust me. I believe I even insisted upon it.”

“It is true,” she said mechanically. “You
did a wonderful job of alienating my affection, of eroding my trust, of making
me hate you. It was masterful work of which you should be proud.”

There was no heat in her voice or in her
dull eyes that flicked fearfully over the landscape. She looked like a bird,
easily startled and poised to take flight. Branson had to leave straight away
for she was close to begging to be taken back to her cell. He had seen this
stage of collapse before. It unsettled him to see it in his cousin. He was near
to losing her to the darkness in her mind if something was not done to reverse
it and quickly.

He mounted Gladiator, settling Clara in the
saddle behind him. She wound her arms around his waist, pressing her narrow
body against his back. The sensation of having her near again was too welcome
to be good for either of them.

Gladiator did not wait for the signal; he
trotted away from the red brick asylum with an animal’s instinct for escaping
disease.

“I am not proud or glad to have hurt you,
Clara,” he said gruffly. “It was necessary to achieve my ends.”

“I have heard all I care to hear about your ends,
Bran. There is no need to belabour your victory. You’ve achieved everything you
set out to do. You’ve taken
Windemere
, my virginity,
and my father’s business. I only marvel that you surrendered your chance to see
my father meet his downfall. Tell me, how does the hunter walk away from
landing the killing blow?”

He twisted in the saddle to see her face.
“Tell
me
, how did Arthur react to the
accusation of rape?”

She paled and he almost regretted his bitter
words. “He denied it. He denied everything even after I told him I was there. I
was a witness. He didn’t care about the effect that day had on me or that it
caused me to stutter for seven years. He didn’t care about anything except
shutting me up in Gateshead.”

“I am sorry.”

“As am I.”

She fell silent after that and Branson
smothered his pity to deal with business. His tone was clipped and impersonal
when he addressed her. “Edgar will send word as soon as the meeting is
concluded. I shall deliver you into his care after that, as per our agreement.”

“I know how you enjoy honouring your
agreements. After everything that’s happened, you still don’t trust me or my
brother.
We have always loved you more than
you loved us, Bran. I have not the least doubt that Edgar has done all that you
wanted or that he is your ally. He always was; you were just too proud to see
it.”

They reached the broad
road and Gladiator set off at a fast trot. They spoke little after that.

THE WIND tugged at her shorn hair and
Clara felt her spirits reviving. She began to revel in her freedom and in the
pure pleasure of being out-of-doors again. The autumnal chill, the icy wind on
her cheeks with Branson as her companion was glorious. The only companion she
wanted, Clara thought with joy and sorrow. She had her freedom but Branson did
not. Dead or alive, there would always be Grace.

They arrived at the highway marker made of stone that
divided the road in three directions. One pointed to London, the other to
Somerset and the third directed the
traveller
to
Berkshire.

A field of mown barley cut by a stream and shaded by a
brown-leaf oak tree was a short distance away. Branson dismounted and led
Gladiator to the stream to rest and take water. Then he helped Clara down, took
up the leather satchel and slung it over his shoulder.

Wordlessly, they cut across the furrows to a level spot
where Branson spread his cloak and flopped down. Her cousin stretched his long
body and folded hands under his head. The sun winked over his golden hair.

He squinted up at her and patted the place beside him. “Sit
down. I won’t bite.”

“You’ve promised that before and you bit
anyway.” Nevertheless, Clara sat down beside him, tucking her legs under her
gown. “How did you manage it? What lie did you tell to convince Dr. Rutledge
you were my husband?”

“I produced a written record.” Branson
showed her the spine of the registrar’s book tucked in his satchel.

She stared at him in shock. “You forged a
wedding ceremony in the parish records?”

“If only it were that easy.” His full mouth
twisted wryly. “I confessed everything. Vicar
Wimbley
knows we were not married in London or anywhere else for that matter. I gave
him a version of the truth and he was so impressed by our story of star-crossed
love that he wrote the entry in his own hand. It helped that I pressed upon him
a generous donation. He expects a wedding to follow. I had to tell him the
marriage would take place as soon as I had you safely home.”

“You lied to a man of God,” she said
bluntly.

“Your brother wanted you out of Gateshead
and I devised a means to get you out. That is all that matters.”

Clara removed the leather-bound volume from
the satchel and turned to the last page. Their names were there and the date
they were supposed to be married. “It looks so ... so
real,
” she said softly. “Can one acquire a wife so easily?”

“When needs must—yes. Is that so terrible?
Everyone already thought we were married and even
Wimbley
believes us betrothed. It was a lie that could do no harm.”

“You talk as though a woman’s good name is a
small thing. It is a small thing to a man but it is all a woman has. You gave
your word to the vicar the record of our marriage would be made true. That was
inconvenient. I wonder how you mean to dispose of me.”

Clara thumbed through the pages further back
to the date Grace Leeds had given as
her
wedding day.

“What are you doing?” Branson rose up on one
elbow and tried to take the book out of her hands.

Clara twisted away, quickly scanning the
rows of names until she found it:
Branson
Reilly
. “Here it is. Here you are.
Branson Reilly and Grace Leeds
.”

“What of it,” he growled. “I told you we
were married. Now, hand me the book, Clara.”

She shielded it with her body and peered at
him suspiciously. “Why? What have you to hide?” She turned the pages rapidly,
skimming down the names on the lookout for just one. Births, deaths, marriages,
year after year, but there was no record of the death of
Grace Reilly
.

“She is not here!” Clara whirled to face
Branson. “Your wife, Grace—there is no funeral entry or death notice. Her name
is not listed here.”

Branson opened
his mouth as if to frame a lie, then closed it and rubbed his hands over his
face. “I said I had something to tell you. It might help you to know the truth.”

Clara licked her dry lips. “It always helps
to know the truth.” But her heart was hammering in her chest.

He did not answer but wrenched on the silk
tie at his throat as though it was choking him. His expression was closed and
tense. Branson flung himself down and laid flat on his back as before but he
was not a figure of repose. Frustration clamped his jaw and his stiff fingers
plucked at the barley stubble.

“People claim they want the truth,” he said
in a low voice, choked with torment. “They rarely do. They want what they want
to hear. They don’t know they are asking for a lie, but it comes down to the
same thing.”

Clara held her shorn hair off her face. The
air was cold and fresh though the sun beat down upon them. They were staring at
the sky like little children playing a game. But this was not a game. Perhaps
she already knew the truth but could not face it. Perhaps she only wanted him
to trust her enough to tell her the whole story and then she would let him be.

The dull sensations of Gateshead were
wearing off. Clara lay down on the cloak beside him, brought to life by his
presence, and with life came terrible hope.

“I do not want the lie, Branson,” she said
with quiet meaning. “I want to know what is haunting you. No more deception. I
want to know you as you really are.”

“Then know this about me. I was going to
leave you at Gateshead, but not for the reasons you think. I cannot have you
near me. The only lie I have ever told you is that I don’t care about you.” He
turned his face to Clara’s. “I care for you very much.”

Her breath caught. “And I you,” she managed
to reply.

Branson pushed up on his elbow and he bent
over her. “But you cannot return with me to
Windemere
Hall. I cannot marry you and I cannot live with you as we have done.”

“Is it Grace?” she asked in a hoarse
whisper. Her mouth was dry. “She is in your heart and I cannot dislodge her.”

“She is ... not in my heart. She was for a
time but that time is long past.” He touched her lips with the tip of his
finger. “My God, but you are beautiful. I want to be with you more than is
allowed.”

Clara’s heart lodged in her throat. “Allowed
by whom?”

Silence ticked between them. Somehow, she
knew. She knew all along but dreaded to hear.

“By Grace.
My wife.”

“Your wife is dead,” she said hoarsely,
knowing the futility of the protest. “You told me Grace Reilly died at her own
hand seven years ago.”

“I told you a lie. Grace Leeds—Grace
Reilly
is alive. My wife is living at
Windemere
Hall in an apartment of rooms on the top floor,”
he said in a low even voice. “I cannot divorce her. I’ve talked of leaving and
she threatens to kill herself if I do. I cannot have women in the house. She
flies into a jealous rage.”

“Stop.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Stop it. I do not want to hear any more.
You will say anything to be rid of me. I liked you better when you were openly
cruel. I cannot bear any more lies—not from you or from my father. I am sick of
you both. Your sole interest in me was revenge—well, you have achieved that—I
am thoroughly broken. Why are you here?” Clara cried, her voice rising. “You
should have left me in Gateshead,” she said with emotion. “There is no life for
me in London or anywhere else. Father is ruined and I’m ruined for marriage. It
does not matter. I have no wish to marry now.”

Branson clutched her fiercely to his chest.
“Do you imagine this is easy for me? It will never be easy for me for as long
as I live. You are mad if you think I will be happy apart from you.”

He crushed his lips on hers and kissed her
with depth and passion that felt wrenched from his soul. Clara was astonished
and overcome with emotion. A groan sounded in the back of his throat and she
lifted to him, unconsciously answering his need.

“I’ve wanted your lips on mine for as long
as I can remember,” he said.

She tried to push up on her elbows to escape
him but Branson held her down, pressing his lips against her neck and throat.
His fingers tugged at the hooks on her bodice and he crushed her flesh against
the earth. Clara fought her breath, her brain spinning, dizzy and
half-unconscious.

“You are trying to beguile me,” she said
frantically. “Trying to make me believe you have feelings for me.” It was
impossible that Branson could love her and yet she wanted to be convinced that
he did. She wanted to surrender to him as she had at
Windemere
Hall.

“
I
have beguiled you?” he said with angry disbelief. “It is
you
who have beguiled me! You told me once that I had made an enemy
of you. One over whom I have no weapon. You said I had broken your heart and
one day you would break mine. You have, Clara. I cannot defend myself against
this feeling and I cannot escape it.”

Her mouth worked to find the words. The sky
hung low and dark blue. White clouds scudded on the horizon. The moment between
them was fragile like spun glass. What she felt for him and what she read in
his eyes would shatter if she named it out loud. The thin wire joining them to
one another, the invisible thread that tied his rib to hers would snap if she
said what she thought—what she believed. Branson could snap it with his bare
hands.

Her courage failed her.

“What am I to you, Branson?”

His liquid blue eyes found hers. “You are
the whole of my existence,” he said without apology. “You are my greatest
pleasure and my most wretched self.”

The tug of doubt and second-guessing would
always be with her until the words were spoken aloud, but he would not say
them. She touched his cheek. “It is the same with me. You are my whole being. You
are my second self.”

He fell on her, kissing her hard with
passion and mingled fury. Branson kissed her like a man in prison, demanding
and possessive of something that he knew was doomed to slip away. Her heart
broke for him. Clara gripped his face and returned his kiss fiercely. Their
tongues met and the shock of their joining drove them wild for more.

Branson tore open his waistcoat and worked
the fastenings on her bodice. Their fingers scrabbled over the hooks and eyes,
wrenching on buttons and tugging on belts. The work of removing the layers of
clothing did not deter Branson from stripping Clara of her plain dress and
corset until she was wearing only a chemise and slip. Panting with a desire
that would not be denied, Branson hopped to his feet and wrenched off his shirt.
He flung it away and stood at a distance from her. His muscled chest gleamed
with sweat and sun.

“Wait.” He faced her, shielding his eyes with a raised arm.
“Take off your chemise and slip. I want to see you naked.”

Clara’s belly clenched and fluttered. She felt that peculiar
throbbing between her thighs that drove her half-wild every since the night
Branson took her virginity. She stood up, lifted her chemise off over her head
and dropped it to the dark earth. Then she pushed the slip down and stepped out
of it. Clara was completely exposed.

The sun was warm but her nipples puckered as Branson gazed
at her breasts. She had a mad thought that this was as far as they would go,
that Bran would be content to see her in the nude and Clara would be satisfied
too. After all, her cousin was a married man. His wife yet lived. She allowed
herself to believe they were like children playing house and there was no harm
in it.

Branson had a serious look in his blue eyes that were
slightly pulled down at the corners. His thick blonde hair was smoothed back
off his forehead and his mouth was slightly parted. Clara’s cousin had
beautiful full lips that were usually pressed in a critical line when he looked
at her. But now, they were soft and vulnerable.

“Are you sure you want this, Clara?”

“I am,” she said shakily.

“Come here, then.”

Clara’s heart pounded in her throat as she came closer to
him. He took her hand and drew her down to the cloak. She could not meet his
eye until he reached over and stroked her face.

“You are so beautiful, cousin.”

Her teeth started chattering, though the sun was blazing
hot. “I am scared to death. This is worse than the first time. Isn’t that
strange? Just—oh—
talk
to me because I
think I am going to die!”

His hand dropped to her breast and he cupped it in his palm.
“You are not going to die.”

Clara closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun as he
fondled her. Branson’s breathing was tight and hollow as a drum from seeing her
in the broad daylight. He took his time feeling her up, dragging his hands from
the base of her throat to her knees and then back again.

His cousin’s tits were the size of melons and capped by pale
pink nipples that budded under his palm. She sighed and flinched when he rolled
those delicate buds between his fingers. His hands were rough from riding
without gloves and other pursuits not belonging to a gentleman.

Her legs twitched and Branson slid his hand between her
silky thighs—God, her skin was soft! He stroked her up, up to her soft wet
womanly core. Clara mewled and stretched her arms over her head. Her legs
relaxed open.