Dare To Love (21 page)

Thomas smirked and met eye-to-eye with
Charles once more; the two men staring each other down, sizing one
another up. Gwendolyn was pushed aside by both of them and Charles
began rolling up his sleeves.

Thomas yanked off his dinner coat and then
ripped off his cravat. Rolling up his sleeves too, he stalked
around Charles, guesstimating his contender’s strength.

Gwendolyn ran over to Thomas and quickly
pleaded with him, “Do not do this, you are going to lose…he has
never lost a match before. You do not know what you have gotten
yourself into, please Thomas, concede.”

Thomas tore his eyes away from his challenger
for a moment and looked into hers. “Worried about me now, eh?”

Gwendolyn huffed and stomped her foot, “How
incorrigible you are! No, you egotistical fool! I was merely giving
you forewarning!”

Too big for his breeches, Charles squatted
down next to a nearby chess table, and skated his forearm across
the counter clearing it from all game pieces. Thomas serenely knelt
on the other side of him and placed his elbow firmly on the granite
surface.

“If I win,” Charles wagered, placing down his
ante, “Me fiancée leaves wit’ me this very eve.”

Thomas arched one black brow, assertively
addressing him, “And if I win, your fiancée continues to stay.”

Charles let down his enormous elbow onto the
stonework with a thud, “Agreed.”

Gwendolyn covered her eyes from any further
stupidity and began to pace the room. “This is ridiculous!” She
exclaimed, waiving her hands in the air. “Do either of you want to
know how I feel?”

“NO!” They both said in unison.

Concentrated eyes glued on one another, their
hands gripped instantaneously; Thomas on the left side, Charles on
the right, all the strength, power and vigor showing instantly in
their strained grimaces.

Gwendolyn began to gasp at the sight of
Charles easily bearing down on Thomas. She wanted to entwine her
arms around his and support his losing brace. Oh how could Thomas
be this brainless? What on earth could this solve? Men! She will
never be able to figure them out. Gwendolyn clutched her stomach
from the distressed vision before her and shook her head. Closing
her eyes with the realization that she was going home with Charles,
Gwendolyn turned towards the door about to exit. She heard a bang
of knuckles behind her and placed her palms on the outlet.

“I’ll be stayin’ at The Quail Inn ‘til the
papers are signed,” she heard Charles say behind her.

Whipping her head around Gwendolyn was
surprised to see Thomas rolling down his sleeves. An intense, wild,
victorious contortion embraced her gape. Dear God, he won. He
actually beat Charles McMillen, a five-time arm-wrestling champ,
with ribbons and medals to prove his strength. She swallowed hard
and followed the loser to the entrance foyer.

“Only a couple more days Charles, then I’m
coming home,” Gwendolyn mouthed to him, feeling his defeat.

“Are ya Gwendolyn?” He asked quietly,
wrapping his large hand around her chin. He leaned in and gave her
a small peck on her lips.

“Yes Charles,” Gwendolyn voiced watching his
face pull away from hers.

Charles stared at Thomas in the backdrop.
“Then I’ll be seeing ya,” he voiced, placing his wool cap back on
his head, exiting out the door.

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

Walking along a ship’s deck, Gwendolyn felt
the rush of rain and wind across her face…she wiped off wetness,
but suddenly felt dry…a thick cloud of fog embraced the hull…she
continued to walk forward, her feet damp and moist from not wearing
any slippers…she was cold, she was drenched and eyed a tall figure
in the distance. Tommy, she realized…and before she can reach out
to touch him, he jumped over the ledge in one alarming hurdle...she
cried out to him, but he does not hear her? She ran towards the
sheer but sees his body floating face down in the water…crying, and
on the verge of insanity, she felt compelled to join him…

Gwendolyn sat up from bed dripping in sweat.
Gasping for air, she realized it was her recurring nightmare. She
hobbled out of bed and rushed towards the vanity. The basin was
bare. The water was gone.

Grabbing her lamp, she lit a fire stick and
enflamed the wick inside. Once outside her door, she looked up and
down the silent hallway. Everyone was asleep, she realized, and
descended the long corridor. The manor was pleasantly still and
eased Gwendolyn’s apprehension. She passed several closed doors on
her way towards the staircase then stopped at the sight of
illumination from underneath a closed door. His room, she
recognized and wondered why he was still awake.

Slowly opening the door, she wheezed at the
sight of Thomas sitting in a lounge chair, guzzling an open bottle
and staring into a blazing fire. He was bare-footed in breeches, an
unfettered white shirt exposing his neck and chest. His hair was in
disarray, untamed and cascaded above his shoulders. He doesn’t hear
her approach and Gwendolyn silently sat down on an armchair aside
him.

Heart thumping inside her ears, she assembled
opposite him gazing into a sullen fire. He still had not responded
to her advance and she felt odd watching him stare dejectedly into
the blaze.

“I do not like your intended,” he suddenly
whispered into the conflagration.

Gwendolyn let go a smirk, “I do not like
yours either.”

Thomas grabbed his bottle and held it to his
chest. “Unexpected, how two people who never warmed to the idea of
wedlock, suddenly find themselves both desirous of marriage?”

Gwendolyn fought back her tears and brought
her legs up into the chair and crossed them under her long wide
chemise. “You are lucky he allowed me to stay…he does not trust
you.”

He yanked the bottle away from his chest and
took a swig of the comforting alcohol, “With good reason.”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “You must keep your
hands to yourself.”

He cursed into the flare and continued to
stare at the blaze. “No worries Gwendolyn, after tonight, consider
me the perfect gentleman.”

Gwendolyn laid her chin on her knees, “When
have you ever been above reproach, Thomas?”

Thomas brought the bottle up to his lips and
cocked his head, grinning slightly, he let go a “Touché.”

Gwendolyn watched him drowning his sorrows
and his depressed look. “Thomas,” she asked gently, “Devin has
expressed that he has only known you for seven years. What happened
to the rest of the three?”

Thomas now looked over at her. Gwendolyn’s
hair had tumbled down the sides of her shoulders like an auburn
waterfall. She appeared striking in spite of her commonplace
nightgown. She handed over a smile that truly puzzled him. “I was
detained.”

Gwendolyn sat silent, watching Thomas
suddenly shiver. “Detained, from what?”

“I did not tell you everything Gwendolyn,” he
expressed, turning away from her and gazing back into the
flames.

“Another riddle?” Gwendolyn asked
sweetly.

“An understanding,” Thomas let go sluggishly,
the alcohol damming his reason. “My crate was adrift for nearly
four days,” he confessed shrilly. “Some Portuguese fisherman found
me afloat. Bringing me aboard, they fed me molded bread and rotting
fruit, thinking that would save me.” He stopped coldly and took
another swig, wiping his jowl of liquid that missed his lips. “They
stranded me on a foreign land, with no one to aid me, no one to
acknowledge the fact that I could not speak a word of Portuguese
and left me to fend for myself. I was weak and tired, and hungry…oh
so starving. I started stealing food, anything and everything that
I could make a run for; fruit, vegetables…sometimes even sausages.
Occasionally, I was able to eat what I stole, most of the time…I
was flogged. After two pain-staking years, I finally found an
English ship that set anchor. I tried to explain to them who I was,
but no one believed me. My father’s shipping commerce had become
inoperative since his death and all HCC ships were being ordered
out of action. I then befriended the British captain who offered
work for food. I even entered arm-wrestling contests to help me
achieve my goal. It took me another year Gwendolyn,” his voiced
cracked as he lowered his head, “Twelve long months, lifting those
bags of wheat the size of horses, to achieve passage back to
England.”

Gwendolyn sprung up from her seated position
and lurched towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling
him into her warmth. He was trembling, frightened and she tried to
console him by massaging her fingers through his hair and rubbing
his back. “Oh Thomas…”

Thomas dropped the bottle on the floor and
blanketed his arms around her backside, resting his head on her
midriff. Crossing his doom, he closed his eyes and felt a rush of
zeal from being so close to her sympathy. He allowed his hands to
roam her spine, down the small of her back, to her derriere.

Heart pounding in her throat, Gwendolyn felt
her desire beginning to escalate. Oh God—his hands felt so good…her
body awakening from his blind groping. “I should go,” she quietly
voiced.

Leaning his head slightly away from her, he
said, “Yes…yes, you should. Go back to your room Gwendolyn; it is
not appropriate for you to be in mine.”

“Why you despicable man.”

“Yes, that’s it…hate me, go ahead and hate
me.”

Gwendolyn was tongue-tied, emotions bursting
at the seams. “Hate you? I just wanted to comfort you…it is what a
friend would do for another friend.”

“You and I can no longer be friends,” he
stated in a cold harsh tone.

Gwendolyn stood away from him and his
indifference, “We were once the best of friends.”

“In another lifetime,” Thomas uttered gently
suffering from his repeal.

“True friends are hard to find Thomas,” she
beseeched. “I would hate to have to go through life knowing that
your friendship was no longer obtainable.”

Thomas threw his posterior back into the
chair. Good God, she was …beautiful, how was he ever going to get
her to leave? “Could you do it Gwendolyn? Could you?” He asked with
all honesty. “Meet me on the streets of London, you with your
husband, me with my wife. Look at me strictly as a friend and
converse with me by the same well-wishes?”

Gwendolyn searched his subject for some
remorse, but she could not find it. His words were painful to hear,
afflicting her reasoning in the worst sort of sting. “It would take
some time, but yes, I think—”

“Because I could not,” he interrupted
her.

“Why not?”

“Because every time I look at you,” he paused
to search her objective. “Every time I see you, Gwendolyn…with
mutual esteem or just you standing there, I want to pull up your
skirts and ravish you for hours.”

Gwendolyn’s mouth closed up and her pulse
pleaded leniency. She scanned the fire beside her and then looked
over at Thomas. She could tell by his posture that he was still
inflexible, but his eyes showed proof of hesitancy. She could have
him now; have him once…one last time. “Every time?” She whispered
carefully.

Thomas’ mouth suddenly went dry. He felt a
throb uncoil in his abdomen. What was she doing? He watched in
disbelief as Gwendolyn unclothed herself and stood before him,
naked and unprotected from his vigilant charge. “Trickery demeans
you.”

Devious to a degree, Gwendolyn purposely
stood in front of the flames to outline her physique with the
fire’s orange glow. “No deception Thomas, merely a test.” She was
still his wife, he was still her husband, and their longing seemed
suited and within acceptable limits.

Thomas grinned and rested his glare on her
ruby-red nipples darting towards the sky. “Then I fail
unmercifully.”

Feeling her breath quickening, she watched
him disrobe while still established in his chair; he pulled his
shirt up over his head, unbuttoned his breeches tugging them off
his feet. Stationed only a few feet away from her, his penis sprung
free, his undress, merely an enticement, inspired her recklessly,
his physical body powerfully apt in ideal proportions. “You are a
beautiful man Thomas Hollinger.”

Enthralled from her sheer existence, Thomas
grabbed her waist and ran his hands up her bare stomach climbing
towards her breasts. Hovering over her peaks, so soft and plump,
were those luscious cherry stems. “Men aren’t beautiful Gwendolyn,
they’re simply built for potency—now sit on me,” he persuaded
roughly, bringing his eyes up to her gaze.

“Well, my friend,” Gwendolyn murmured, raking
his shoulders, his manhood and lower body, “Your traits are taken
too lightly.” Gwendolyn then stepped into him and sat on his
lions.

Almost immediately, Thomas pounced on her
hair, pulling it down until her throat was exposed to allow his
mouth to buss her neck and ear with over-zealous exploitation.
“Never miscalculate me minx,” he groaned in her lobe, “I shall make
you pay for your taunting discord.”

His fervor passed through her too quickly,
meeting his obsession with her own burning journey…through his
hair…around his neck… down his sinewy backside. Happy to be in his
arms…joyful to be by his side…blissful that he was alive again,
Gwendolyn grabbed hold of his face and kissed his lips with
hungered anxiety. Thomas pulled her body in closer and opened her
mouth with his tongue. Slow, tempered searching turned fanatical
and immersed.