Forbidden Lord (28 page)

Even as she continued to berate him, William's mind and senses were bemused by the way the sunlight penetrated the wooden slats at the windows and tangled in her bright hair, streaking the copper and gold with silver light that gave it a halo affect. It curled vigorously over her shoulders, twisting and tumbling to her thickening waist.

Closing the distance between them, he reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and, tenderly cupping her chin in his hand, looked deep into her stormy eyes. His brows pulled together as an astonishing realisation struck him, for, despite her magnificent show of courage, Eleanor was apparently on the brink of tears.

‘Why are you behaving like this, Eleanor? I was ill and now I am well. Why are you cavilling over a trifle?'

‘Oh, you—you insensitive, insufferable, heartless man,' she cried, pounding his chest with her fists in frustration. ‘I do not consider you being so ill that you almost expired a trifle,' she said, wanting to close her eyes against the scalding tears that threatened, but keeping them open and looking at him through a bleary haze, aware of his closeness and feeling her weak woman's body straining towards him. ‘When you didn't come to Cantly Manor, I truly believed you didn't care enough—for me, when all the time—you were… You might have been dying. How do you think that makes me feel? I could not have borne it if you had died.'

With sudden, heartbreaking clarity, the seriousness of his illness and the fact that she might never have seen him again, that she might have lost him when he had come to mean everything to her, was overwhelming and the tears flooded from her eyes.

William's expression softened and in it was his desperate need to help this self-willed woman. Tenderness burst inside him and, unable to watch her torture herself any longer, he pulled her into his arms.

‘I am sorry, my love. Based on the things you have accused me of, I know perfectly well that I am guilty of all of them and deserve your chastisement. I am fully conscious of the true depth of my failing to consider your wishes in all matters concerning us. Where my illness is concerned, I truly did not want to worry you with anything that might have distressed both you and the child. But, throughout my ordeal, my thoughts were entirely of you. You must believe that.'

‘They were?' she asked, finding it difficult to be convinced.

‘I am not marrying you for the sake of duty or because I feel obligated.'

‘Then tell me why? I need to know,' she whispered. Her
body became still in his arms, her cheek resting against his chest as she waited, not breathing, anticipating his next words.

Tightening his arms around her, William placed his lips on the top of her head. ‘It's because I love you,' he said fiercely. ‘I love you more than life,' he whispered softly, burying his face in her hair. ‘You called me heartless, and you were right. You see, my love, I didn't know I had one, until I met you, and even then I didn't recognise what it was feeling. You are a light in my life and my body and my soul craves for you. Without you I will cease to live.'

Eleanor turned her tear-streaked face up to his, her eyes shining with all the love that was in her heart. ‘I could have lost you.'

‘Don't, Eleanor, don't cry. It would take more than a fever to get rid of me.'

‘I do love you, William. I love you so very much.'

‘And you will marry me—and have my baby?'

‘Gladly.' She smiled through her tears and laid the palm of her hand against him cheek. ‘Thank you for asking.'

 

Fryston Hall had an air of the sinister about it. Having been shuttered and the servants dismissed on Frederick Atwood's death, it was strangely silent, almost like a tomb. Sir Richard Grey had inherited his uncle's estate, but he had no wish to live in the house and according to Catherine, intended selling it.

Eleanor shuddered. She had agreed to accompany Catherine to collect some of her father's things, since Catherine hadn't wanted to come alone. Godfrey was tied up with William on some important business at Whitehall. The sombre atmosphere preyed on Eleanor more than she cared to admit, but Catherine seemed to be above fears of this kind. Even the driver of the coach preferred to remain outside rather than enter this gloomy old house in Bishopsgate.

‘There are a few things I have to do in Father's rooms,
Eleanor—and some things I would like to take back with me. Would you like to help?'

‘If you don't mind, Catherine, I'd rather not. I'll wait here until you've finished.'

‘I understand. I'll try not to be long.'

Eleanor watched her hurry away before looking around her. Lifting her skirts, she slowly climbed the stairs, the walls on either side hung with tapestries. Wandering through the familiar labyrinth of passages and rooms, she did not linger in any one place, for everywhere she looked was a painful reminder of Frederick Atwood and all she had suffered within these cold stone walls.

She walked past the stairs that led to an upper storey and into the great hall where only months earlier they had celebrated Catherine's marriage to Henry Wheeler. Looking around the eerily quiet, empty room, it was impossible to believe that all that merrymaking had taken place here. How much had happened since that day when her entire life had changed.

‘Catherine?' she called. There was no answer. She must be too far away to hear her, she reasoned.

Going back to the stairs and climbing to the next floor, she looked around, but there was no sign of her stepsister. When she was about to go back downstairs, on hearing slow and measured footsteps she paused and looked ahead, wondering who it could be since Catherine must be in another part of the house. Her eye was caught by a tall figure advancing slowly towards her down the gallery. It was a man dressed in black and as he came closer, she felt the blood run cold in her veins, while her mind raced feverishly.

It was Robert Grey. She felt the sweat standing out on her brow and the blood drain from her face. He was like a sombre ghost haunting this old unwelcoming dwelling. She watched him warily as he halted close before her.

Confronted by Eleanor in her shimmering lime-green dress, Sir Richard stopped several feet in front of her. His
nostrils flared and his eyes sparked suddenly as they slid down her neck, following the outline of her low, square-cut bodiced gown, where her perfect ripening contours were clearly defined by the soft silken material.

‘I see you really are breeding like a bitch, Lady Taverner,' he jeered, arrogant in his demeanour, confident with Eleanor alone. ‘Soon you'll be parading your belly about the Court for all to see and speculate on who the father might be. There are several who will take some convincing that it is your husband's child you carry, and that it is not some other man's by-blow.'

Eleanor stiffened, clasping her hands at her waist as if to protect the child. Knowing she was alone with Sir Richard and how dangerous he could be, she fought to stop herself trembling and to hold on to her self-control. ‘What are you doing here?' she asked.

‘I might ask the same of you.'

‘I should have remembered that as your uncle's heir this is now your home, if you want it to be, although Catherine believes you intend to sell it.'

‘With my uncle's death I have become a man of some substance, power and circumstance,' Sir Richard stated. His smile was cold. ‘I intend to enjoy all of it.'

‘And all thanks to my stepfather.'

‘Indeed. I have acquired many things—and I might or might not sell Fryston Hall. As yet I haven't made up my mind.'

‘Then if you decide to live here, I hope it gives you more joy than it gave me. It hasn't taken you long to move in, or perhaps it's provided you with the perfect hideaway if you are lying low.' Her voice was harsh and meaningful and Richard Grey knew perfectly well to what she referred, even if he pretended otherwise.

‘You speak in riddles, Lady Taverner. Won't you explain what you are talking about?'

‘Martin.' She took a step closer, looking him straight in the eyes, trying not to show her fear of him. ‘I know it was you
who killed him. Who else would want to? Who else had reason to want to end his life—and in so brutal a manner? It was quite shocking and Martin did not deserve to die that way, if at all.'

‘You know nothing,' Sir Richard uttered scornfully. ‘Martin had no reason to be afraid of me, he knew that.'

‘That doesn't mean to say you didn't kill him.'

‘What did you imagine I would do when you triumphantly announced that the child you are carrying was Martin's? That I would simply ignore it and carry on?' As he spoke and the words came pouring out, his features grew ugly and contorted with the anger and wild hatred that had been festering inside him ever since this woman had thrown Martin's child in his face. ‘He tried to make a fool of me—you both did. What did he expect I would do? Did Martin honestly expect me to ignore the fact that he had betrayed me?'

‘With his wife,' Eleanor pointed out coldly. ‘But no matter what I told you that day at Whitehall, he did not betray you. For the short time we were man and wife, he never once shared my bed or even attempted to. So you see, Sir Richard, the child isn't Martin's. He remained faithful to you right to the end. Now, how does it feel, knowing you killed your lover for nothing? I did imply that the child was his. I should not have done, I realise that now, and I deeply regret doing so in so much as he is dead because of it. Sadly, I cannot retract what I said.'

A deadly smile twisted Sir Richard's features and his voice became dangerously soft. ‘You're right. Martin would still be alive today if you had you not made your mischief, Lady Taverner, so the blame lies with you also and you must carry the guilt of it.'

‘I shall—to my grave. But you were the one who wielded the knife. If you had truly cared for Martin, you would not have killed him. You won't get away with it,' she said, struggling to keep her voice even, wishing Catherine would appear. She turned back towards the stairs. ‘Good day to you.'

‘Not just yet.' He strolled arrogantly forwards and, reaching out, grabbed her arm and pulled her back. ‘I am not done with you,' he hissed, spinning her round to face him and holding her in a vice-like grip. ‘A face such as yours, so fine and fragile, would not bear well under a fist, Lady Taverner.'

Eleanor shuddered at the callow crudeness of his threat. Struggling within his hold, she opened her mouth and screamed as loud as she could.

‘Let her go,' a voice thundered.

It was William, sword raised, bounding up the stairs.

‘William, thank God!' Eleanor shrieked. ‘Help me.' She kicked and struggled, trying to get her attacker to let her go, but he was massively strong.

‘God damn you, Grey!' William shouted, striding towards them.

Sir Richard released Eleanor and fell back, drawing his own sword. William circled him. The surge of anger that had engulfed him when he had seen Eleanor in his murderous grasp was replaced by a blackness of spirit.

‘So, Marston,' Sir Richard sneered, ‘you appear like a ghost from the past. You should have died on board that ship. I paid Paxton enough money to see to it.'

‘And he paid with his life for his treachery,' William snarled. ‘As you will—when the Queen's men get here to arrest you for the murder of Martin Taverner. When Atwood hanged himself, you must have thought it was your lucky day. Things turned out for you very well. Pity you will not live long enough to enjoy your inheritance.'

Madness flamed in Sir Richard's eyes. ‘My uncle did not hang himself. When he ordered me to get rid of you he wanted you dead, but I had my own idea of how you would be disposed of.'

‘Which failed. I came back. Did Atwood give you a hard time over it when he realised you had failed him? Was his wrath so severe that he threatened to disinherit you, so you
killed him and made it look like he took his own life?' Sir Richard's nostrils flared and William saw he had hit upon the truth. ‘Predictable as always,' he scoffed, ‘you are well and truly caught.'

All Sir Richard's pent-up anger and resentment that he continued to feel for his uncle blazed in his eyes, and the image of him kicking his life away at the end of the rope was a pleasing one. ‘He wanted to kill me, but I killed him instead—as I will now kill you, Marston,' he snarled, raising his sword.

Chilled and sickened to the bone, William launched the attack with all his considerable skill, thrusting and cutting with a determination and expertise that astounded Eleanor, who had fallen back so as not to be caught up in the fight.

Sir Richard exhaled sharply as he fell back against the wall. William drew back his fist and slammed it into Sir Richard's jaw. His head jerked back and he released his hold on his sword. Shaking his head, with a roar he then launched himself at William, who met the assault with a rain of blows to the other man's face and chest, knocking him to the floor. It became a mêlée of flailing arms and legs, but, being possessed of a heavier build and above-average strength, William had the advantage.

Eleanor, her heart in her mouth, watched them rolling over and over. Then she heard a disturbance below. Someone was thundering on the door, which crashed open beneath the onslaught. There were raised voices, the clattering of boots and feet pounding up the stairs. Suddenly the house seemed to be full of men wielding swords. Godfrey was in front and, seeing his friend on the floor, with a loud growl he went and separated the two combatants and hauled a badly beaten and gasping Richard Grey to his feet.

Wiping blood from a slight wound on his forehead with his sleeve, William confronted Atwood's nephew with hatred in every line of his body. ‘I swore revenge for what you did to me. For too long you have escaped justice and escaped your
fate, but no longer. When you killed Martin Taverner in cold blood, you went too far.' He looked at the men gathering round. ‘Take him away.'