Forbidden Lord (24 page)

Giving herself up to total abandon and revelling in the pleasure he was giving her as his lips kissed the smooth swell of her abdomen, his long, lean fingers holding her waist, pausing now and then to murmur intimate, sensual endearments, she moaned, her emotions soaring even higher, her excitement for what was to happen next uncontrollable, and she wanted him to take her immediately.

When she could bear it no longer, his passion rising to meet hers and fully roused, he pulled her close to the hard, naked heat of him and she felt the rigid thrust as he entered her. Her response was spontaneous and incredibly enveloping, and when she half-opened her eyes to see his face, the passion in his eyes was fierce and frightening. Powerful, conflicting emotions, dammed up for weeks, burst out like a flooded river bursting its banks, gushing forth in a dangerous torrent.

A husky moan escaped her and with her heartbeat throbbing in her ears, her blood flowing through her veins like a liquid flame as he drew out all her suppressed longings that surpassed the first time they had made love, it was far more profound and she could deny him nothing.

Once again he showed her the true meaning of sensuality and passion. What she was doing was dangerous, immoral, even, for was she not committing adultery? And should she not be feeling shame and guilt? And yet William's caressing hands, his mouth devouring her own, his powerful body pressed against hers, gave her no time to consider the sin she was committing, condemned by the church and a crime against her husband.

In the glowing aftermath of their loving they lay for a precious moment in one another's arms. With their limbs entwined they were oblivious to the world outside, only the sound of the river traffic and their breathing disturbing the silence of the room. Turning towards her, William stroked her
hair streaming over his shoulder in a mass of contrasting shadows, his lips brushing her warmly flushed cheek.

Eleanor lay as one drugged in his arms, arms that warned her that though he might be gentle and tender, they would never let her go. Rousing herself from the delicious torpor that enfolded her, she sighed, her eyes fluttering open.

William smiled and his rather grave face softened with tenderness. ‘I wonder why you fire my blood as no other woman has done, my love. I fear I am quite besotted with desire for you. What is your secret?' he murmured. ‘I swear you are a temptress, a witch, out to entrap me.'

Her smile was sublime as she reached up and traced his cheek with the tips of her fingers. ‘There is no secret, William. I am neither witch nor temptress. I am myself.'

Taking her hand he placed his lips in the palm of it. ‘And a rare creature you are, Eleanor, an incomparable, precious being who has this new life on the way, the woman who is to bear my child—a son, naturally.'

‘I'll do my best,' she murmured, laughing softly, ‘but you may have to be content with a girl.'

‘Or both,' he murmured, nuzzling her ear with his lips.

‘Both?' Eleanor became alert. This was something she had not considered.

William laughed, amused by the astonishment that sprang to her eyes. ‘Twins, my love. Twins do seem to occur with a frequency in my family that is often quite alarming.'

‘They do?'

He nodded, his eyes shining with devilment. ‘Not only are Jane and Anne twins, but my mother, also. She has a twin brother—she stayed with him in Pickering when our property was confiscated. He has twin boys and my grandmother was a twin. So you see, my love, it is possible that you too shall have two babies instead of the one.'

Eleanor considered this seriously. She did seem to be putting on weight at an alarming rate—but twins?

‘Well—we shall have to wait and see, William, but—two babies? You are pleased?' she asked demurely, trying hard to blank Martin from her mind and what this would do to him and their marriage, for she knew William would never walk away and leave his child or his children and forget them.

‘Need you ask? I am delighted—in fact,' he said, leaping out of bed and walking over to a small table by the window and filling two goblets with wine, ‘let us drink the health of our child—or two, whatever the case may be.'

Turning back to her, about to hand one of the goblets to her, he froze, unprepared for the stunned expression on her face or the horror that stared out of her eyes. ‘Eleanor? Are you not well? What is it?'

‘Your—your back?'

A small shiver that had nothing to do with him being naked ran up William's spine, and then, sighing heavily, he placed the goblets back on the table. Wrapping a scarlet velvet robe around his powerful body, he came to sit beside her on the bed. ‘It's not a pretty sight, is it?' he murmured, taking her hand.

‘But—but what happened to you?' The flesh on his back was a hideous mass of scars and welts caused by a whip. She swallowed hard and, squeezing his hand with both her own, she looked at him. ‘William, don't you think it's time you told me exactly where it was you disappeared to for the three years you were absent—and what monstrous cruelties were inflicted on you to cause such disfigurement?'

‘I have never spoken about it. Only Godfrey knows the full story. He was part of it.'

‘Did you not go to Geneva, which was where many Protestants escaping persecution went?'

He shook his head, a bitter twist to his mouth. ‘Geneva! There was no such luxury for me.'

‘Then—where did you go?'

‘Let's just say I went to foreign parts—through no choice of my own.'

‘Why? What do you mean? Are you saying you were banished by the Queen after all?'

‘No. By Atwood—not Mary Tudor. One thing I soon realised was that where Atwood leads, there follows a long trail of treachery and disaster.'

‘Did you know him well before you met Catherine?'

‘No, in fact we had never met. I got to know Catherine when I visited friends in Clerkenwell. They had a daughter, Margaret. Catherine and Margaret were close friends. I approached Atwood to gain his permission to court Catherine. He had no objections—in fact, he was enthusiastic about a union between us.'

‘You—fell in love with Catherine?'

He considered her words carefully before he replied. ‘I thought I did—at the time. It was later that I began to realise that what I felt for her wasn't love. Catherine was—suitable—eminently suitable to be my wife. We suited each other, yet when we were apart I didn't yearn for her—in fact, there were days when I didn't even think about her. Thoughts of her didn't twist my gut—which is what happens when I am apart from you.'

‘What happened to change that?'

As William rested his back against the bed head, his features became set and grim, his eyes hard with remembrance. ‘I got to know Atwood for what he really was, and I didn't like what I saw. He was ruthless and would go to any lengths to achieve what he wanted. Anyone who stood in his way was removed—forcibly, if necessary. One of his ventures was to lend money for astronomical interest. An acquaintance of mine borrowed money off him. When Atwood called in the debt and my acquaintance was unable to repay it, Atwood claimed his property.'

‘And what happened to your acquaintance?'

‘He killed himself, leaving a young wife and three children. I had approached Atwood on his behalf, asking him to reconsider and give him more time to repay the debt. He told me
to go to hell.' Bitterness twisted his lips. ‘At the time I had no idea how close to hell I was to get. Anyway, that was when our relationship changed and he began to have doubts about my suitability as a son-in-law—especially when I began to question his nefarious, more often than not illegal methods of making money.'

‘That doesn't surprise me.'

‘When I stepped in and tried to prevent him marrying your mother, knowing how your father despised him, that was the final straw. Atwood knew I was on his back and that I wasn't going to go quietly. The more persistent I became, the more furious he got. One night I was set upon and beaten senseless by a band of ruffians. When I came to—with broken ribs and a broken leg—I soon realised I was a prisoner on a vessel named
George
bound for the Americas.'

Eleanor paled visibly, appalled by what she was hearing. ‘And my stepfather was responsible for this—this act of wickedness?'

William nodded his head slowly. ‘I could not bear to speak of it before—to remember what it was like when I woke up on that ship from hell.'

‘Tell me.' Wrapping a sheet about her, Eleanor tucked her feet beneath her and faced him, waiting for him to speak.

He drew away from her, leaning against the bed head, forcing his mind back to that ship he had wanted to forget. He did not speak at once, but sat for a while, his head bowed, as if meditating. Then he raised his head again with the air of a man who has come to a decision.

‘It is a difficult and shocking tale, but no harm can come of you hearing it.' Because of the intrigues of a greedy, ruthless man, he had been abducted, knocked senseless and sent halfway across the world from where, Atwood must have thought, he would never return. The brutality of the men who held him, the conditions under which he was forced to live, would have broken a lesser man. Only his determination, his
own iron will, his quick and active mind, his obstinacy, had brought him back to England to confront the man responsible for his misery, to make him pay and to demand answers.

Sensitive to his mood, Eleanor wrapped her warm fingers around his hand and gripped it hard, giving him strength. ‘William, I don't want to remind you of your sufferings. It is painful for you to speak of them, I can see that. I only want you to explain a little of what happened so that I can understand.'

Raising his hand, he gently touched her cheek and smiled. ‘I can imagine your bewilderment—the questions you must have put to yourself.'

‘Then help me to understand.'

Clearing his throat, he shifted slightly, watching her face for her response to what he would tell her. ‘Lured by the riches to be had in the New World, Atwood had already commissioned the private vessel, a rover operating out of London, to conduct an independent operation on his behalf. The vessel was well armed, the captain—Lew Paxton his name was well schooled in prize hunting on the high seas—he was also such a fearsome-looking figure that imagination cannot form an idea of a fury from hell to look more frightful. He was large and powerful and bullied his men. He also had a violent temper and a fatal inability to earn the respect of his crew.'

‘What was it like? Was the captain cruel to you?'

‘Savage and cruel beyond belief. Spawned in evil, he and his men lived to commit their evil. Bloodlust shone in their eyes.'

‘But why did he do such terrible things? What possible reason could he have…?'

‘Because he enjoyed it. He liked to hurt people, to hear them scream. That was sufficient reason for him.'

William closed his eyes, the sounds and the pictures still in his head. The cries, the endless screams—and then worse. Silence. And then there was the fear that had been in him, and when he was free prevented him from looking back.

‘I knew, each time a man was flogged or some other un
bearable torture was applied to his body, that I could do nothing. I was powerless—helpless.' He sighed, opening his eyes. ‘I prefer not to offend your sensibilities with the details, Eleanor, so I ask you not to press me,' he said quietly, his usually bright eyes dull, his mouth held tight. ‘What I will say is that through my severe treatment at Paxton's hands, I had every expectation of each day that dawned being my last. When I left that ship I vowed that one day I would confront the men who put me there.'

‘My stepfather?'

‘And one other.'

Silent and wide-eyed with horror, Eleanor stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. An immense pity welled up from the bottom of her heart towards this man whose sufferings at last she was beginning to understand.

‘Where did you meet Godfrey? Was he on the same ship?'

‘No. I met him when we reached South America, when the ship launched a strike against a Spanish vessel close to Maracaibo on the coast of Venezuela. Godfrey, who had left home to become a soldier of fortune when his family fell on hard times, was on that ship. The commencement of these hostilities provided ample employment for every sort of seagoing ruffian. They raided and plundered one another's vessels for goods and hostages—the latter to be held for ransom or used as slaves.'

‘Was Godfrey a slave?'

‘No. He was employed as a mercenary by the Spaniards and was taken hostage. His obstinacy irritated the captain and he lost no time in punishing this recalcitrant addition to his ship. He also saw Godfrey, because of the sheer size and strength of him, as a challenge—someone to be subdued. The beatings were brutal affairs, personally administered by Paxton, who took delight in thrashing prisoners to within an inch of their lives.'

‘Was—was he responsible for what happened to your back?' Eleanor asked in a small voice.

‘Yes. At this time life on board ship became a grim struggle for survival. There were internal rivalries and disputes between the captain and crew, and tropical diseases began to take their toll. It was when we were off Panama that a mutiny took place. When the captain was indisposed, eight members of the crew launched an attack.'

‘Were you one of them?'

He nodded.

‘The leader?'

Again he nodded. ‘And Godfrey. When the captain and his second mate became ill, I incited the mutiny and took over command of the vessel. Paxton had his throat cut while he slept—and no,' he said when her eyebrows arched in question, ‘I didn't do it.'

‘And what happened next?'

‘After plundering a Spanish galleon heading for Spain, laden with heavy chests of silver ingots and gold coin stowed amidships we headed for home.' Suddenly he grinned, his teeth gleaming white in his swarthy face. ‘The Queen was well pleased when presented with the treasure—not so the Spanish Ambassador who demanded compensation for the plunder on the Spanish vessel, but his protests were ignored.'