The Sins of Viscount Sutherland (14 page)

He had brought her to this state.

His hand hovered above her hair. “Claire. Claire, please stop.”

With his thumb, he guided her face to his. His gaze scoured hers. “This cannot be good for your health, Claire.”

Her throat clogged tight. “Dr. Ken—”

“Yes, yes, I’m well aware of his opinion. I begin to wish I’d never let the man near you! It pains me to see you like this, Claire. It pains me to know that I have made you weep. You are right. I have a ghastly temper.”

She swallowed. “I cannot bear to live like this, with such strain between us.” Her fingers curled and released in the front of his shirt.

“I only stayed in London because I thought you wanted me to,” he confided. “I am the man who killed Oliver. I am the man who brought you into these circumstances. You have every reason to hate me.”

Claire didn’t know what she wanted these days. But she did know she didn’t hate him. Far from it.

His arms tightened. She was shaking, he realized. His gaze didn’t waver.

His thumb beneath her chin, he guided her eyes to his. “Claire,” he whispered. “Please stop.”

He nuzzled the soft skin of her temple.

Her tears were wet between their cheeks. Gray didn’t care. Unable to stop himself, his mouth closed over hers.

She didn’t stop him. “God,” he muttered when he drew back. “I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.”

“Gray—”

He heard the uncertainty in her voice. Her eyes were locked with his.

“This feeling between us,” he said tautly. “Deny it, Claire, but it’s there. I know you feel it, too.”

He kissed her again, a kiss that caught fire. Locked in the moment, locked in her, his hand slipped inside her bodice. He could feel the difference from the time they had made love. He remembered everything. Her breasts were rounder. Fuller. He toyed with her nipple, his palm grazing back and forth, feeling it tighten against his palm.

He dragged his mouth away. Desire ruled. In his head, in his heart, in his body. The need for fulfillment pounded in his rod. It strained to be free. He ached with the need to release himself into her hand. He wanted to be against her, inside her. He was a breath away from loosening his breeches . . . lifting and settling her over his rod.

She raised her face to his. Her hands splayed over his chest. “I haven’t seen Lawrence, Gray. I haven’t. His letter—”

His knuckles skimmed her cheek. “Shhh. It’s all right.”

Her eyes clung to his. “Do you believe me?”

His embrace tightened. “Yes. Forgive me, Claire. I’m as beastly as you say.”

Forgive me.
The words tumbled through her mind. A frisson of guilt nagged at her. Not until then did Claire realize that her thoughts of Oliver had grown fewer. And now the mere sight of her husband made her heart leap as nothing before.

He spoke quietly, his gaze direct. “I believe we need a truce, Claire. Is that agreeable to you?”

She nodded, her eyes clinging to his.

“Excellent.” Gray moved her gently away from him and rose.

“Are you going back to London?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

He shook his head. “I shall stay.”

Her heart was glad of it. Taking her hand, he pulled her to her feet.

“As long as I am here,” he said, “I’d like to visit a neighbor. I’m thinking of purchasing several horses for my stable. It’s not far. Will you ride with me this afternoon?”

Her eyes widened. “Ride?”

“On a cart.” One corner of his mouth turned upward. “I think you’re some months away from being able to ride again.”

It struck Claire that this was the first time she’d ever truly seen him smile. An odd little tremor went through her. Impossible though it seemed, he was even more handsome than the last time she’d seen him.

“Meet me downstairs at half past the hour.”

D
ressed in her warmest cloak, scarf and galoshes, Claire met Gray promptly in the entrance hall.

He tucked a lap blanket around her knees. The weather had warmed throughout the week, though the nights remained cold. Snow had begun to melt during the day, making the track rutted and rather mushy. The cart jostled along. She was acutely conscious of the way his long stretch of muscular thigh nudged hers—and felt hers against his. Her shoulder bumped his as well. There was no avoiding his closeness.

Her emotions were scattered in all directions. The memory of his kiss was still fresh. Did he regret it? She couldn’t control the bend of her mind.

His attention was occupied with controlling the cart. His hands were gloved, but her gaze kept straying to them. The kiss rushed back in vivid remembrance—she had to wrench her mind away from it.

And he was going to stay. She cringed inside. Why, she had practically begged him to! But how long would he be here? How long before he returned to London? Had he resumed his old life when he was there? How many women had lain with him? Heaven help her, was she jealous? All at once her mind seemed barraged with uncertainty.

As Gray had said, it wasn’t far. Despite the cold, it was a beautiful day. The sky was brilliantly blue. They passed a stand of maple trees, branches bare and naked. The sun’s warmth had begun to melt the snow and ice from the branches; it was as if the world glittered with silver pinwheels.

They neared a long, white-fenced pasture. Gray pointed out the roan he was interested in purchasing. “A beauty, isn’t she?”

Claire echoed the sentiment. She was unaware of his scrutiny moving over her profile.

When they rolled up to the Bennett home, Edgar and his wife Rosetta came out to greet them. This was the first time Gray had introduced her as his wife. Claire felt her face heat. It seemed odd to think of herself as Claire Sutherland.

Edgar was a robust man with ruddy cheeks. Rosetta took her inside for tea, while the men conducted their business. Claire said good-bye with genuine reluctance. Though she and Penelope corresponded often, she hadn’t seen her friend for months, and it made her realize how much she missed female companionship.

The shadows had begun to deepen before they departed for home. They were perhaps a mile away when Claire pointed through the trees toward snow glistening in the sun like crystal.

“Oh, how beautiful. Is it a pond? What a wonderful place to skate in the winter.”

“It’s a lake. And it’s deep. Not a good place at all.”

His abruptness caught her off guard. “Well, doubtless it’s a good place for fishing. And you’ll recall,” she teased, “I caught a good many more fish than you. My father and Oliver—”

She broke off. An awkward silence descended. To cover it, Claire asked if she could see another arm of the lake that stretched to the east.

Gray jumped down to adjust the horse’s bridle, so Claire walked down the path toward the lake. It would indeed be a lovely spot to pass a warm, lazy day, she decided. But her pleasure was bittersweet.

She didn’t know where she would be come summer—here or home at Wildewood.

The day had warmed enough that the path was slushy with snow and mud. Wanting to see the shore, she moved down an embankment, picking her way carefully. Frowning, she peered over the edge. She didn’t realize she stood in the shadow of a large boulder where the ground had yet to thaw. She turned—

Her legs went out beneath her and then she was plunging through the ice.

A frenzied scream tore from her throat. Darkness was everywhere. It was cold beyond comprehension. She could not see. She could not breathe. The water sucked at her, as if to bring her down . . . down.

Terror iced her veins. She opened her mouth to scream again. Water filled her mouth; it was as if her lungs turned to frost.

Then she knew no more.

Gray gave an affectionate slap to the horse’s rump. He glanced in the direction of the lake, then up at the sky. Night’s haze had begun to fall. They should be on their way.

In the midst of that thought came a shattering scream.

He bolted down the path.

Never in his life would he forget the sight of ice and water closing over Claire’s head. There was a glimpse of slender arms raised high, as if in pleading.

Wild panic surged. A desperate fear that plunged him back . . . All he could think was that he had to save her.

He had to save her.

He scrambled across the icy surface, praying as never before. Her cloak was dragging her down, he realized. A frantic dive and he grabbed hold of the hem.

He broke free of the surface, one arm around her chest. He heaved her from the water. Would the ice hold her? It did.

“Claire!
Claire!
” he shouted then, while pulling her to the bank. Her eyes were closed, her body limp and unmoving, her lips the color of wax.

Dread surged high in his chest. “Claire,” he muttered hoarsely. She gave a heaving cough. A wheezing breath racked her body. Her lids fluttered open.

Gray was never as thankful as he was in that moment. Relief rushed through his veins. He wrapped his arms around her.

He had saved her.

He had saved her.

They were both soaked to the skin. Gray grabbed the lap blanket in the cart. He quickly wrapped it around Claire, then carried her to the cart.

Moments later, back at the house, he yelled for help. Rosalie came running.

Claire had thought she was going to die.

Minutes later, trembling violently, she stood while Rosalie and Gray pulled her clothes off. Gray settled another blanket over her while the bath was filled. Another servant came in to build a roaring fire.

Gray dismissed Rosalie once it was full. “I’ll tend her from here,” he said.

She still wore her underclothes. Gray reached for them and she batted at his hands. “Let me,” she cried.

Gray was undaunted. He peremptorily pushed aside her hands. His brow furrowed in concentration, he tugged her chemise down one shoulder, then the other. Ignoring her protestations, he dragged the gown from her shoulders.

Claire quivered, not from cold, but shock. Mortified, she realized she stood naked. With a gasp, she clamped her hands over her breasts.

Gray had already begun to strip. Piece by sodden piece, his clothing slapped on the floor beside hers. Shirt. Breeches. She was still dumbfounded when he stood as naked as she.

A steely arm slid under her legs. He lifted her effortlessly from the floor and into the steaming water.

What happened next made her heart leap. “What—what are you doing?” she cried.

Gray didn’t answer. He was intent on warming her. Water sloshed as he climbed into the wooden tub. To her dismay, it was big enough for two. An arm about her waist, he pulled her naked back against his chest, between the vise of his legs. Her bottom was nestled intimately against his loins.

But Lord above, her teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. She sank lower, beneath the surface of the water, not quite sure what warmed her most, Gray’s body or the bath. Nor did she know which was worse, his nakedness or hers!

“Come,” he said finally. He rose behind her and brought her to her feet. Briskly, impersonally, he dried her, then pulled a robe around her. Claire had little memory of Gray donning his. She sucked in a breath—she didn’t want him to see the round swell of her belly where her child dwelled. Oh, Lord, her child . . .

Fear consumed her. “My baby!” she cried. “My baby!”

Gray’s reassurance was quiet and soothing. “I sent a message to Dr. Kennedy. He’ll come have a look at you as soon as he is able.”

Briefly, there were others in the room then, and someone pressed a hot drink into her hand. Seated on a stool in front of the fire, a robe around her form, Gray brushed the tangles from her hair while it dried. Claire’s throat locked tight. She was reminded of the other times she’d felt his fingers in his hair . . . It now seemed more intimate than ever.

He put her into bed, then dragged his robe from his shoulders and dropped it in a chair. But not before she saw him.

His chest and belly were brazenly visible, matted with curling dark hair. She didn’t want to look down, but something commanded her attention, something she couldn’t stop. Her mouth went dry. Her breath caught. He was so— She cut the thought short. He was climbing into bed with her!

Pulling up the counterpane, Gray brought her back against his chest once more. Burned into Claire’s mind was the memory of the night he’d taken her virginity. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird’s. Gray had seen her naked. Her stomach knotted. It was as if she could feel the heated strength of his fingers sliding over her skin again. Her breasts. Belly. The secret place between her thighs.

Time hung suspended. They lay toe-to-toe. Thigh-to-thigh. Sharing warmth. Sharing breath.

She could feel his sex, every inch of him—the spear of that part of him that had made her flesh sting and burn. Her thoughts were wild and disjointed. Every time she chanced to glance at his profile, she relived those unforgettable moments when his mouth trapped hers.

His every kiss.

His every touch.

Her feelings were all blurred inside her. She was both fascinated and wary. She began to tremble again, not from cold, for Gray’s body was so very, very hot! She tried to speak, but no sound passed the lump in her throat.

It was almost as if he knew what was in her mind. “Lie here with me, Claire.” He stroked the slope of her shoulder. The valley of her spine. “Lie with me. Don’t be afraid.”

Little by little her trembling ceased. She nestled against him, her breathing deep and slow and easy.

That wasn’t the case a few nights later. Claire was tired and decided to retire early. Gray was working in his study.

In her chamber, she stirred the fire. Since that day at the lake, it seemed she hadn’t been able to warm herself. She crawled into bed, piling covers over her shoulders. Sleep came quickly, but it was a restless sleep.

She dreamed she was in her nightgown running blindly toward the lake. Her heart pounded. A woman raced at her heels through the snowy woods. In her arms was a small bundle.

It was her baby.

And the woman was Lily.

There was nothing where her face should have been. She didn’t know why, only that the woman spelled danger. Then all at once she was at the water’s edge, ice beneath her bare feet. It cracked beneath her. She sank through the half-frozen surface, her lungs burning as the frigid waters closed over her head.

Strong hands curled around her shoulders. “Claire! Claire, wake up!” She was still screaming when she realized it was Gray.

“You’re dreaming. It’s just a dream, love, just a dream.”

Her scream gave way to a fractured sob. A strong hand smoothed a long curl behind her ear. His thumb traced across her cheeks, wet with tears. It was as if she looked through him, not at him. His expression was grim.

“What were you dreaming?”

“I was running and I—I couldn’t get away.” Her voice was thready with tears. She didn’t want to tell him it was Lily.

“From what?” He caressed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Tell me, Claire.”

She shuddered. “My baby . . . My baby is in my arms. And I can still feel it, Gray. I can! And she wouldn’t stop chasing me. She wouldn’t!”

“Who?” There was an odd note in his voice.

Claire hesitated.

“Tell me, Claire.”

“It was Lily.”

Gray’s skin had gone ashen.

Claire shook her head. “I don’t understand, Gray. It was so vivid! Did Lily die at the lake? She did, didn’t she?” Her cry was jagged. “And now my baby’s dead. Now it’s my turn!” A sob welled inside her. Once again she could feel the weight of that small, lifeless body cradled in her elbow.

“No, Claire. You aren’t going to die. I won’t let you.”

Her eyes were half wild. “You couldn’t stop Lily and your baby from dying, could you? And now I can feel my poor, dead baby in my arms again!”

He shook his head. Taking her hand, he pressed it across her belly. “No, Claire. Feel.”

There was a reassuring—and unmistakable—kick beneath her palm. “You’re right,” she said haltingly. “Of course you’re right. It’s silly of me.” Her gaze moved over his face.

“But I still don’t understand. I—I saw the portrait in the garret, the portrait of the three of you. And I went to the graveyard—and found their graves. I thought they both died—Lily and William—when William was born.” An eerie foreboding gripped her. “They didn’t, did they?”

There was a heartbeat of silence. “No,” he said at last. “They didn’t die in childbirth.”