The Pearl at the Gate
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
Macon GA 31201
The Pearl at the Gate
Copyright © 2008 by Anya Delvay
ISBN: 1-59998-189-0
Edited by Laurie Rauch
Cover by Dawn Seewer
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: June 2008
The Pearl at the Gate
Anya Delvay
Dedication
For my friend Lisa, who said, “What are you afraid of?” and created a monster!
Chapter One
Roake Barbenoir looked at his wife over the breakfast table and watched the rain-filtered sunlight play across Jenesta’s profile. Objectively, he could state she was not beautiful. In height, she was average. Her features were regular. Dark brown hair waved back from a forehead some perhaps would consider too prominent. With a soft, rounded face, unremarkable nose, and brown eyes to match her hair, nothing set her out of the ordinary.
Yet Roake could not force himself to look away.
The light cast caressing fingers over her skin, slipping along her cheek and down her neck to make Jenesta’s flesh glow.
Roake wanted to follow the sunbeam’s path using his fingers, teeth and tongue. Strip away her modest clothing and allow the light to reveal every inch of her to his rapacious gaze, ravenous mouth and cock. The scent of her cunt seemed to swirl in his head, a memory from the night before. Fingers tingling with the phantom sensation of her sweet moist flesh, Roake drew in a silent shallow breath, and then another, trying to control the frenzy of desire she aroused by simply being.
Jenesta took a sip of coffee and carefully replaced the cup in its saucer. Roake followed the action, watching her graceful hand manipulate the fine china.
There was nothing wasted in the movement. Jenesta was calm, good-humoured and capable. In fact, prior to their marriage, she had been considered a fine example of Regency maidenhood.
He wanted to feel her hands on his body, surety of movement lost to passion, fingers clutching and stroking, calm shattered in the face of his lust. In his fevered imaginings, she screamed his name, begged and pleaded, caught in that place where pleasure hung torturously just out of reach. In his wicked mind, she writhed, suspended between wanting him to stop and never wanting him to stop, moaning as she waited to see which he’d choose.
After years at sea, Roake was more familiar with bordellos than with ballrooms, but he knew to leave the sexual knowledge gleaned on his travels outside her bedroom door. So he came to her in the dark, touched her as gently as he could, kept their encounters brief. Her acceptance, the warm regard with which she treated him, meant more than any treasure he had ever earned. If he were to frighten Jenesta, or give her reason to despise him, life would not be worth living.
If she knew of the dreams haunting him since they met, she would be terrified.
Again he swore to protect her from that knowledge. Protect her from him.
As the rain lessened, the clouds grew thinner and the quality of the light in the room improved. Jenesta looked up at the window, her face alight with the soft sheen of a flawless pearl.
How appropriate.
In some parts of the East, the pearl was revered as a symbol of purity, in others it represented perfection.
It had taken him one meeting to know he wanted her and six months to manipulate her father into a position where his suit could not be refused. Roake Barbenoir may have the stench of trade about him, but he was also exceedingly rich, and Viscount de Lindsay had five daughters to find matches for. Jenesta had all the characteristics Roake prized in a wife and mother. Confident but not bold, amusing but not silly, innocent and yet not so young that she had to be entertained like a child.
What was it in him that would have him destroy the very characteristics that first attracted him to Jenesta? Why did she bring out this almost demonic lust in him?
Roake looked away and forced his hands to cut a bite of herring, even though his stomach rolled at the thought of eating it.
“Will you still be traveling to Bournemouth today?”
Jenesta watched her husband put his cutlery on his plate and wipe his mouth before he replied. “Yes. I’ll be gone for three or four days.”
“May I perhaps come with you? It would be a good time to look at fabric for the morning room.”
Roake shook his head. “Not this time. With this rain, the roads will be a quagmire. I plan to ride instead of taking the coach.”
Jenesta stared down at her hands so he wouldn’t see her disappointment. In the six months they had been married, he had left her alone at Black Oaks several times, for days at a stretch. “I understand.”
Roake turned back to his breakfast and Jenesta glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. Even after all this time she found it difficult to believe this golden being with wheat-blond hair and the stern, craggy looks of a Viking was her husband.
Roake moved through the world as though it belonged to him. When he entered a room he overwhelmed it, no matter how large or full it might be. Effortlessly, he radiated power. His face and voice, even the way he held still, or gestured decisively, spoke to his core of steel. The first time she saw him, Jenesta knew—he could give her all she secretly craved.
Yet it was his eyes that affected her the most. So light as to seem blue one moment, smoky grey the next, they were most often unfathomable. At other times, his gaze swirled with emotions she could not name, knowledge she wanted to share.
When he looked at her that way, her body screamed to life and it took every ounce of self-control not to let it show. He was so big, more muscular than any other man of her acquaintance, his body coming not from the gentlemanly pursuits of riding and fencing, but from hard years at sea. A working man’s body—strong, yet leashed so tight she could feel the distance between them when he came to her bed.
Outwardly, she lay still and silent as he touched her, entered her body. Inside, she cried out for more. More, based on knowledge she should never have possessed. If he ever found out what she knew, how she felt, Roake would be disgusted.
I know what he could give me, if he would, if I knew how to ask, if it would not forever destroy me in his sight.
Heat rushed up from her belly toward her face and Jenesta dipped her head to hide the blush she knew stained her cheeks.
“Are you bored here?”
Roake’s voice was cool, with a strange underlying tone. Jenesta could not identify it and looked up to find him watching her impassively. “No, not at all. What with overseeing the redecoration of Black Oaks and the neighbours’ visits, there is plenty to keep me occupied. In fact, I am surprised at the number of people who come to call.”
Roake chuckled, but it held a bitter undertone. “Good of them to welcome you so heartily.”
A cold ball of anger bloomed in her chest. She knew many members of Society looked down on Roake, even as they courted him for his wealth. It had not occurred to her that he might have suffered the same alienation here at his country home.
He hid it well—his anger at being rebuffed. She would have never suspected it mattered to him one way or another.
Keeping her voice level, Jenesta said, “Tell me which of them you would rather I not receive.”
Roake blinked, as though such a notion had not even crossed his mind. “That is not necessary.”
Jenesta raised her eyebrows. “You would have me entertain those who were disinclined to offer you their hospitality before?”
Roake smiled. It was so rare and beautiful an occurrence, Jenesta’s breath hitched in her throat. “In my eyes you have brought life to Black Oaks and that is all that matters. Entertain them all, and we can laugh at their hypocrisy together.”
Jenesta smiled back at him and nodded. Their moment of collusion filled her with warmth. Roake pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “In the meantime, continue to do what you can with the place and I will see you in a few days. When I return, perhaps we can plan a trip to London for you to buy what you need for the redecoration.”
Jenesta suppressed a sigh and kept the smile on her face. “That would be lovely.”
Roake paused at the door to look back at her. “Inform the staff if there is anything you need while I am away.”
It was what he said each time he left, but this time it reminded her of a matter she wanted to discuss.
“There is one thing I wished to ask before you leave, if you have a moment.”
Roake touched his fingertips to his fob pocket but turned back into the room. “Of course. What is it?”
“There is a door at the end of the east wing I could not open. Mrs. Harmon informs me she is not in possession of the key and suggested I ask you about it. Do you have the key for it?”
Roake shrugged, his face and voice cold as he replied, “There is no need for you to bother with that room. It contains only some items of personal interest to me and I do not wish anyone to go into it.”
“Surely you want it to be aired and dusted—”
“Stay out of that room, madam.”
The ferocity in his voice startled her, awoke a spark of something hot and equally fierce in her chest, but dutifully she nodded, unable to speak through the lump forming in her throat.
Roake turned on his heel and left the room and Jenesta sat alone at the table, clutching her napkin between trembling fingers. How could it be one moment they were in such sympathy and the next made her feel she knew her husband not at all?
Roake pressed his stallion into a gallop, letting the animal have his head until they reached the road to the village. The cold sting of the rain on his face did nothing to cool his blood.
How could he have been so foolish as to keep those mementos? The thought of Jenesta stepping into that room, that world, horrified him.
And aroused him almost beyond bearing.
When he got back he would take some men upstairs to empty the room and have the entire contents burned.
Jenesta must never know the man he truly was.
He rode through most of the day, stopping only to rest his horse and get a bite to eat. There was no urgent business awaiting him in Bournemouth, but he pushed onward, trying to outrun the demons. Perhaps in the busy port city he might find a whore with dark hair who would give him what he needed. Closing his eyes, pretending she was Jenesta, he could slake this interminable lust.
Yet, by mid-afternoon, he realized he was but fooling himself.
Jenesta was all he desired. No other woman would do.
Running away would not cure what ailed him. There needed to be a fresh start, a firm decision separating him from the demon riding his soul and the life he now had. Jenesta meant too much to him, and he hurt her each time he left abruptly, as he had that morning. He could not continue to jeopardize his marriage by holding on to fantasies that would never be fulfilled.
Stabling his horse at the nearest inn, he hired another and turned back toward Black Oaks.
Chapter Two
I do not know my husband at all.
The thought stayed with Jenesta the entire day, weaving its way into every action she undertook, every decision she made.
She knew who he was—Roake Barbenoir, adventurer, some whispered pirate, youngest son of Sir Tristan Barbenoir. She knew of his father’s decline into poverty while Roake was young, knew her husband had gone to sea as a cabin boy at only eight years old. Jenesta heard from the housekeeper about the fever that ravaged Black Oaks, destroying the entire family, with the exception of Roake. He came back from a voyage to discover himself an orphan and owner of a ramshackle estate.
It was hard to believe Black Oaks had ever been in disrepair. Over the years, Roake had ordered the E-shaped mansion renovated, bringing it up to a standard far above the original. Not all of it was in use, but the majority was filled with furnishings and fittings brought back from his voyages. Yet he had proven to be completely unsentimental about the contents, instructing her to dispose of anything she disliked, redecorate the house to her liking.
Were those instructions born of disinterest, or of a desire to give her something to occupy her time while he was away from home?
Jenesta silently slipped into the east wing, lifting the flickering candle high so as to see down the dark corridor. The wind moaned outside, the flame jumping as a draft found its way through the high mullioned windows. Shivering, she pulled her wrapper close to her throat with her free hand and walked down the passageway. If she waited any longer, the voice inside her head, the one saying it was best to leave well enough alone, may get the better of her.
All day it had warned her, reminded her of his cold rage when she mentioned the locked room. In reply, another voice chanted an insidious refrain.
I do not know my husband.
And he does not know me.
That knowledge kept her searching—seeking the key to open the door to the room in the east wing. Perhaps in there she would discover who Roake Barbenoir truly was. His reaction to her innocent inquiry told her the answer may lie behind those doors.
Now, with the servants long since retired for the night, Jenesta gave in to the curiosity drawing her there.
The wind rattled the windows, rain lashing against the panes. Jenesta turned the final corner, cupping the flame to stop it from going out and leaving her in darkness. The ring of keys she had found pushed to the back of a drawer in Roake’s bedroom jangled as though in protest of her audacity.
All her fears seemed to silently follow her like ghosts. She knew not what she would find in the east room—had not allowed her thoughts to stray that far. Instead she’d moved through the day as though enthralled, under the spell of his desire to remain a secret and her determination to find out who he was. Now she could only wonder and question the advisability of what she was about to do.
I do not know my husband.
If she did nothing that would never change. If she did the wrong thing, the connection growing between them could be destroyed.
Her hands were steady as she tried first one key and then another in the lock until, with a quiet click, one turned and she pushed open the door to step into the dark.
Immediately Roake’s scent, sharp as a fresh breeze off the ocean, enveloped her. It filled her senses, caused heat to pool low in her belly and drip like melted wax into her legs. Holding the candle higher, Jenesta looked around the room. Her heart pounded and the candlestick slipped in her suddenly moist hand, almost falling to the floor. The odour was so evocative, she almost expected to see him there, standing by the window, the mocking look he often wore twisting his finely chiselled lips.
Jenesta laughed quietly at her imaginativeness, but it was a faint, almost hysterical sound. Steeling her nerve, she retrieved the key from the outside of the lock and closed the door. No one ventured into this wing of the house, but she would rather not take the chance of being discovered.
Noticing the sconces on the wall, Jenesta lit them. She took a moment to catch her breath and look around. It was a fairly small room. Perhaps once it had been the dressing area for the room beside it, for it was about the right size, but she could see no other doors. There was a small desk and chair on one side of the room, with a sea trunk next to them. On the other side of the room were two larger pieces of furniture, both covered with dustsheets. A Turkish carpet covered the floor and thick curtains shrouded the windows.
It was, all-in-all, vaguely disappointing. While she had no real idea of what to expect, this simple space was depressingly prosaic. The surface of the desk was bare and, when she pulled out the single drawer, it held only a number of quills and a bottle of ink. Nothing there to explain Roake’s coldly savage manner.
Jenesta turned her attention to the sea chest, kneeling to open it, sitting back on her heels as she examined the contents. The tray at the top was fitted with compartments, some of which had covers. One open section held a number of short leather straps, each with a buckle at one end. They were far too short to be belts, but she was not sure what they might be used for otherwise. Perhaps collars for hounds?
Another section was filled with neatly folded silk. Jenesta lifted it out and realized it was cut into narrow lengths, hemmed at the edges. There were Asian symbols painted on each length, along with different animals and mythological creatures.
Laying the silk across her lap, Jenesta opened one of the enclosed compartments and caught her breath. It was filled with large pearls of all different hues, each more than a half-inch in width. She touched them, running her fingers lightly over their lustrous surfaces. They were as smooth as the silk and gleamed, shimmering in the flickering light.
Unable to resist their allure, Jenesta captured one between thumb and forefinger and picked it up. That was when she discovered they were all strung together, but not in any way she had ever seen before. Instead of being set close together on the string, there was a distance of three or four inches between each gem and its neighbour. There were no clasps on the ends either, and they formed one long strand.
She ran them through her fingers, fascinated by their lustre and the way they warmed to her touch. It was almost as though they were alive, each one a tiny spirit awaiting her attention to awake. Cupping them in her palms, she raised her hands to her face, bending to rub her cheek across the pearls. Then she pooled them in her lap and opened another compartment. An ivory-handled razor was the only thing there, so she closed it and turned to the next.
Raising the wooden flap revealed a leather-bound book, the cover stamped with a swirling pattern and gilded with touches of gold leaf. Jenesta reached for it but hesitated, leaving it in its satin-lined home. There was a date stamped in gold on the cover and she leaned forward to read it in the dim candlelight.
June 13, 1813
Her hands began to tremble as she slowly traced the letters and numbers with the tip of one finger.
That was the date of the Duchess of Hastings’s ball—the night she first set eyes on Roake Barbenoir.
Jenesta dragged in a shallow, shaky breath and eased the book out of its receptacle. The smell of leather and ink grew stronger as she balanced the book on the edge of the trunk and opened the cover. There was no printing inside. Instead, the flyleaf held only Roake’s name, inscribed in his large slanting script. Turning to the next page, Jenesta read,
‘Your light calls to me, brightens my world even as it deepens the darkness within.’
She shuddered, reading the words again and again. She might have written them herself, so true were they to her own feelings for her husband. Jenesta could not pinpoint the time when she first knew she loved him. It seemed to have simmered in the background from the moment they met, when something deep and tortured opened inside her, releasing a wave of both darkness and radiance into her soul. He was both the catalyst and balm for those feelings—being with Roake was both delight and pain.
Almost reluctantly she moved on to the next page and gasped as her heart began to pound.
He had drawn them together, politely greeting each other at the duchess’s ball. Rendered in pen and ink, the details in the picture were astounding. Roake had remembered the exact cut of her gown, the roses entwined in her hair, the choker of pearls at her throat. Yet, while he had drawn her precisely as she had appeared that night, he was depicted with a series of dark, slashing lines. It was still him, but not as she had even seen him. The self-portrait made him harsh, frightening. A monstrous presence disguised as a man.
She turned quickly to the next page and found more words.
‘Your light holds me in check, yet at night the dreams come and I awake in the morning ravenous, with the words
Forgive me
on my lips.’
Another drawing accompanied them. They were still at the ball, but it was a scene obviously from his imagination. Roake was leading her outside, his head bent as though he whispered into her ear, her face tilted up to listen. The look in her eyes was that of a sleepwalker, as though he had taken her over, mind and body.
Flipping to the next picture, she froze, unable to breathe, unable to immediately comprehend.
She was bent back over his arm, her bodice lying in tatters about her waist, breasts exposed to the night. Roake held her with one hand tangled in her hair, the other tight around her waist and his teeth latched on to her as he tugged on her puckered nipple.
The trembling began in her fingers, the book fluttering with the violence of her shudders. They travelled along her arms until her entire body washed hot and cold and, finally, inexorably, the cold receded and the heat settled between her legs.
As though in a dream, she turned the page. Now she was in his arms, limp, in a swoon perhaps, and Roake ran into the night looking over his shoulder at the milling crowd outside the duchess’s house. His face was set in a snarl, daring those who would rescue her to try.
Another page—another drawing. They were now here, at Black Oaks, in this very room. Roake tore at her skirts, shredding the fabric with his huge, rough fingers. Her body was bared to him, inadequately covered by her hands. Her hair fell in wild disarray about her face, her only other adornment the choker of pearls around her throat.
Jenesta closed her eyes against the intensity of sensations driving into her body. She could feel it, the mingled terror and lust, the sense of being too weak to fight him off, but filled with the power of being able to arouse him past civilization. Her breasts ached for his touch, her belly trembled with each breath, wet heat gathering to pulse between her legs. It was what she had dreamed, what she wanted so desperately to share with Roake.
With her eyes still shut tight, she fumbled with the page, turned it and took a deep breath before slowly opening her eyes. The picture wavered, came into focus. Her hand was raised, Roake’s face turned so he looked out off the page. It was obvious from her stance she had slapped him, and the look in his eyes as they stared at her promised retribution. Quickly now, breath rasping in her throat, Jenesta turn the page.
The book fell from her nerveless fingers. The room seemed to grow dark and there was a strange rushing in her ears, yet although the book now lay face down on the floor, she could still see the drawing in her mind.
She was sprawled over his lap, her bare arse in the air, his hand coming down, a blur of motion about to connect with her flesh.
Jenesta wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked back and forth.
How could he know? How could he have found out?
She had never told anyone what she had seen, what she had done. Without being told, she’d instinctively known to keep it to herself. The images flashed through her mind, distant now, yet just as powerful. They pulled her effortlessly back in time, churning lust thick in her belly.
Hiding in the old crofter’s cottage, trying to get away from her sisters. Johnston coming in, dragging the downstairs maid, Janie, behind him. She always thought Johnston and Janie liked each other, had even thought they might get married, but now she wasn’t sure. The butler was being so rough with her, his voice harsh as he pushed Janie in front of him.
“You’ve defied me once too often, girl. Now it’s time to pay the price.”
“Please, Mr. Johnston, you know I didn’t mean nothing by it.”
The sound of the butler’s laugh, deep and strange. “Oh, you been goading me into this all week, you saucy piece. Take off your skirts and get yourself ready for your punishment.”
Janie, bare below the waist, bending forward over the old, scarred table.
“That’s right, miss. Push that arse in the air and open your legs so I can see your sweet cunt.”
Janie whimpering, spreading her legs wide to reveal a thatch of wiry red curls and deep pink, glistening flesh, panting and moaning as Johnston worked his fingers between her thighs.
“You’re a randy bitch, with your cunt already wet and hot for me before you get your whacks. Fifteen this time for your trouble. And don’t you dare touch yourself or it’ll be all the worse for you.”
Johnston’s face was flushed as pink as Janie’s cunt and as damp, perspiration beading on his brow as the birch twigs rose and fell. Janie cried, writhing with each blow—begging for more. Johnston counting out the stripes until he reached ten, ignoring her pleas for him to give her leave to come.