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Fury and frustration mingled. He didn’t want to recall the war now, or ever again. He flung the hammer aside and it skipped across the hard ground, hitting a supportive column. The men who were helping him build the barn carefully kept at their tasks, ignoring him.
But the letter always rekindled his damned memories and with them, the bloody pain, which he was adept at burying. Rex leaned on his crutch, breathing hard. The worst part was, he desperately needed the letter, and in the light of day he couldn’t regret saving Tom Mowbray’s life, nor could he regret his brief liaison with the woman he had once, foolishly, loved.
He wiped sweat from his brow, some of the fury receding. The past was just that, the past, and it needed to stay buried. But what he could not avoid was the letter about his son.
For even as he dreaded its contents, he was as desperate to read it, too. There would be so much joy—and there would be even more torment.
Rex gave in. The letter had arrived earlier that day and it had been sitting in his study ever since. As he only received one such missive every year, he could no longer delay. He rapidly traversed the structure that would be his breeding barn. Outside, a number of stone buildings faced him, the fourteenth-century chapel behind them. It was a typical Cornish day—the skies above were brilliantly blue and dotted with clouds that might have been spun with cotton, while the moors seemed to stretch away into an eternity, stark, treeless and mostly barren. But even from where he passed, he could glimpse his sheep and cattle in the distance. The sight gave him a moment of hard satisfaction. Closer to where he stood, stone hedges he had laid with his own hands bisected the nearby hills. A prize crop of yearlings raced in one of the pastures, broodmares grazed in another, fat and close to foaling. And always, he could hear the roar of the ocean crashing on the rocks behind him, a staccato reminder of where and who he was.
Bodenick Castle was his home. It had been built in the late sixteenth century upon sheer black cliffs that fell into the ocean below, and was a stark, square structure, with only one tower remaining. He had spent four years renovating it upon first being awarded the manor for his valor in the war, but he had not tried to reconstruct the second tower, where only a few original stones had remained. Local legend held that pirates had taken it down, stone by stone, looking for their buried treasure. Some folk claimed a treasure remained buried there.
A single oak tree graced the castle, while ancient ivy and wild rose bushes crept up its walls. Rex quickly entered the timbered hall.
It was even colder within than outside. He shivered, having forgotten his shirt in the rising barn. Rex hurried into the tower, where his study took up the ground floor. Dread renewed itself.
It was dark inside, for only two small windows illuminated the round room. Rex crossed over to the desk, where his papers were neatly piled in folders, his affairs legibly marked and purposefully categorized. The letter sat front and center on the leather inlaid desktop. He did not have to look at the postmark or the return address to know who it was from—her handwriting was despicably familiar.
The torment exploded in his chest. Stephen was nine years old now. The letter was late—it should have arrived in January. But then, that was Julia, sending him her account of his son’s progress whenever she got to it. She had made it clear the task was one she felt below her.
How was Stephen? Was he still solemn and correct, and determined to excel so he might please the man he believed to be his father?
Did he still prefer mathematics to the classics?
Had they finally hired the fencing master he had recommended?
Rex choked, unable to breathe. He finally sat down on the edge of the desk, his crutch remaining loosely under his right armpit. No longer holding it, he reached for the envelope, trembling.
The memories began to return. He had arrived home after a long rehabilitation in the military hospital, his entire family there to welcome him, along with neighbors and friends. But Julia, his fiancée, had not been there—and she had only visited him twice in the hospital. He had immediately left his family to call on her, but she hadn’t been home. Instead, he had found her at Clarewood, the Mowbray ancestral home—in Tom’s embrace.
Since that long-ago spring day in 1813, he had intended to never set eyes upon either Julia or Mowbray again. He had been determined to ignore their very existence, as if the love-struck couple did not exist—as if she had not been his lover, as if he had not risked life and limb to rescue Tom from a certain death.
But society was a very small, incestuous place. A year or so later, he had heard that the Mowbrays had had their first son—in October. He hadn’t wanted to allow his mind to go there, but the math was almost irrefutable. As he had left Julia just after the New Year, Stephen could so easily be his child, even though Mowbray had been sharing her favors then, too. And then he’d heard the gossip—that the boy was a changeling, adopted or even the son of one of Julia’s lovers. Although both of his parents were impossibly fair, the boy was as dark as a black Irishman.
Stricken, he had sought out the boy at Clarewood, to see for himself. Rex had taken one look at the darkly complexioned child and it had been clear he was a de Warenne.
The de Warenne men took after one of two ancestors. They were either golden or impossibly dark, and usually, they had the brilliantly blue de Warenne eyes. Rex saw a child that could have posed for his brother Tyrell’s childhood portrait—or his own.
They had reached an agreement long ago. It was hardly the first of its kind in the ton. The Mowbrays would raise Stephen, for Julia was insistent, and Mowbray would provide the kind of inheritance that Rex never could. In return for forsaking his child to the couple so Stephen would have a future of wealth and privilege, Rex would be sent annual reports and allowed an occasional visit. The truth, however, was to remain concealed. Mowbray did not want anyone to know that Julia had been with another man.
It was unbelievably ironic, because a decade had passed and Stephen would have far more than a pleasing inheritance from Mowbray. When Clarewood passed on, Tom had inherited the dukedom, for his older brother had died in a shipwreck. More importantly, there were no other children. Apparently, Tom was incapable of fathering his own child. One day, Stephen Mowbray would be the duke of Clarewood, one of the wealthiest and premier lords in the realm.
He was doing what was best for his son. There was no doubt about that. But now, a knife was being twisted ruthlessly in his heart. Rex opened the letter.
As always, Stephen was excelling at every study and every endeavor. He was two levels ahead in his reading and undertaking advanced studies in mathematics, which remained his favorite subject. He was fluent in French, German and Latin, beginning dance instruction and already adept with a saber, enough so that his master wished to enter him in a tourney for those his age. His horsemanship was equally impressive and he had received a Thoroughbred for his birthday. He was already taking meter fences with ease. And recently, Mowbray had taken him on his first fox hunt.
The script had been blurring since he had begun reading the letter. Rex could no longer see—there was another short paragraph to read. Drops of moisture stained the page, which was shaking. He laid the letter down and gave up. Tears streamed but he could not stop them.
He was so tired of pretending that Stephen was not his. He hated these letters—and he wanted to hold his son. He wanted to teach him to jump those fences; he wanted to take him fox-hunting. But how could he? This was for the best. He did not want Stephen exiled to Land’s End as he had been.
He fought for composure. God, if only he could see Stephen, even once. But he had never visited the boy. If he were going to go through with this arrangement, he knew he must keep the greatest distance possible between them. Meeting Stephen as a stranger would be impossible—he was sure the anguish would rip him apart. He would probably wind up in an opium den, and God only knew that he drank too much as it was. Or he would meet the boy and change his mind. How selfish would that be?
And he could try to remind himself that one day Stephen would know the truth, but there was no consolation to be gained. It would be decades before he could ever approach Stephen and tell him the truth of his paternity, unless Mowbray died an early and untimely death. Rex despised Mowbray, but not enough to wish such a fate upon him.
Rex looked at the dark stone walls surrounding him, closing in on him, and felt as if he were being buried alive, there at Bodenick, where he had toiled so tremendously to turn ruins into a lucrative enterprise. But Land’s End had become a place of exile from the moment he had realized he must forsake his son. It did not matter that he had chosen the exile. The day the yearly letter arrived was the day that he always felt the utter hopelessness of his life. It was the day there was never enough air, and that the weight of his life became crushing.
Rex seized his crutch and swung it viciously. The lamp fell to the floor, shattering, and his carefully organized papers flew everywhere. He stood, leaning against the desk for balance, and thrust the crutch violently at the remaining items on his desk. A glass, decanter, paperweight and more papers were swept to the floor.
He panted, closing his eyes, fighting for control. This day would pass. It always did. Tomorrow he would inspect his broodmares, return to work on the new barn, and begin to fill the pond he’d made in the gardens behind the castle tower. His body continued to shudder. His breathing remained hard and labored. The pain and despair clawed at his heart—he could feel talons inside his chest.
He glanced down at the decanter, which had not broken. He bent, the springs in his crutch allowing it to contract as he wished, retrieving the bottle. Long ago he had learned how to use the crutch in every possible way. It was custom-made, with springs and hinges, and he was no longer aware of its existence. It had become an extension of his body. It had become his right leg.
A quarter of the whiskey remained and he drained as much as he could in a single gulp.
A housemaid hurried into the chamber. “My lord!” She cried, taking in the mess he had created with a single, wide-eyed glance.
Rex finished off the contents of the decanter and then placed it on the desk. He slowly looked at his housemaid. There was a better way to forget.
Anne was on her knees, picking up his papers. She was twenty years old, buxom and pretty and very, very lusty. She had come into his employ two months ago, making it clear she wished to do far more than clean his house and launder his clothes. He refused to deny himself pleasure and passion—he could not survive without sex—and had been tiring of the affair he was having with the innkeeper’s widowed daughter. He had instantly hired Anne. Her first chore had been to join him in bed and they had enjoyed themselves immensely—and had been doing so ever since. He hadn’t been her first lover and he would not be her last. He had compensated her for her extra duties by providing extra stores for her family, who were tenant farmers in a neighboring parish, struggling to make ends meet. Her salary was also a generous one.
Recently, though, he had seen her flirting with the village blacksmith, a handsome lad her own age, newly arrived in Lanhadron. He sensed where that was leading and did not mind, as she deserved a home and family of her own. In fact, as long as he could find a new servant—and a new mistress—he would encourage the match and give them a handsome wedding present.
But she hadn’t married the young blacksmith yet. And pleasure brought escape. He wished to escape into her body now. “Anne. Leave the mess for later.”
She started, looking up, her eyes wide. “My lord, you care for your papers the way me mum cares for my little sisters. I know how important your papers are!”
He felt a new tension arise, there in his breeches, straining at the wool fabric. And it was as he wanted. “Come here,” he said very softly.
She became still, understanding him. And slowly she stood, laying some papers on his desk, their gazes locking, a flush now on her full cheeks. She began to smile. “My lord, didn’t I please you last night?” she murmured.
His breeches had become much tighter. He smiled back at her, reaching for her hand. “Yes, you did. Very much. But last night is over, is it not?”
“You’re the randiest lord,” she whispered as he reeled her in.
“Do you mind?” he asked, running his left hand down her back until he had clasped her very full buttock. He pulled her hard against his manhood, now raging, remaining perfectly and solidly balanced with the crutch.
“How can I mind when you’re such a gent you take your pleasure after me, always?”
Her remark satisfied him. He had always tried to please the women in his bed—he couldn’t imagine a satisfactory encounter otherwise. And then there was the obvious fact that he wished to compensate for his injury. No woman had ever thought about it a second time, not after the pleasure he gave.
“Do you wish to go up to your room?” she whispered, reaching down to stroke his thick length through his breeches.
His breath caught. “No. I wish to take you right here, right now, on my sofa.” He pulled her around him and pushed her back onto the sofa. Fluidly he moved on top of her, using his thighs to spread her legs wide. He pressed against her sex and she whimpered, laying her hands on his bare, wet chest, her eyes beginning to glaze over. She gasped and her palms drifted down to the waistband of his breeches. And very deliberately, she traced the huge line of his arousal with her fingertips.
He grunted, reaching below her skirts. The best thing about a lusty maid was the utter lack of complication, the utter lack of pretense. How she appeared was exactly how she was. Anne wanted sex and pleasure—and food on her family’s table. She wanted exactly what he had to offer and a bit of extra coin, nothing more. Treachery on her part would be impossible.
And she was very ready now. He rubbed his fingers against her wet, heated flesh until tears formed in her eyes and she was whispering for him to hurry. He rubbed her until she began to writhe in an impending climax. He bent, used his tongue, and felt triumph as she climaxed.
She didn’t cling. Gasping breathlessly, she deftly opened the buttons on his breeches. He smiled with satisfaction now and became still, allowing her to do as she willed. The moment he sprang into her hand, she leaned toward him, eagerly seeking him with her mouth, his favor returned. Rex threw his head back. There was only pleasure now.
WHY HADN’T SHE COME to Cornwall sooner?
Blanche stared out of her coach window, awed by the stark desolation of the moors. Flat, pale and treeless, they seemed to stretch away into eternity. A freezing wind swept them, for she had her head out of the window, and her nose was ice-cold. But the skies were vividly blue and dotted with passing white clouds, the sun strong and bright.
She ducked her head inside the coach, her heart having picked up a swifter beat some time ago, when they had turned off the main highway at the sign pointing to both Land’s End and Bodenick Castle. Leaning across the seat, aware of her maid staring at her from the facing bench, she lifted the other window, allowing more freezing air into the coach. The ocean was a shocking sapphire blue, reaching into an even vaster eternity, one belonging to the Lord. By looking somewhat ahead, she could see some of the coastline. It was breathtaking. Breaking white waves pounded the pale beach, strewn with huge black boulders at the base of soaring black cliffs.
“My l-lady,” Meg chattered. “It’s so c-cold.”
Blanche closed the window, simply breathless. “I am sorry, Meg.” Was she actually excited by this adventure? It seemed so!
Meg nodded at the other, still-open, window. Blanche was about to close it when she saw the sheep and cattle now grazing upon the moors. They had to be close to Land’s End. As she was anticipating her arrival there, clearly, she had been in town for far too long.
She had yet to visit Penthwaithe, her father’s estate. The moment she had realized that her friends were right and she must escape the crush of suitors, and that a holiday in Cornwall would be perfect—she had never been to the south—she had decided she would use the opportunity to call on Sir Rex. She was not interested in Sir Rex in the way Bess had suggested. That was absurd. Calling on him was socially correct—and a failure to do so was socially insulting. Of course, it was even more correct to go directly to Penthwaithe, settle in and then call at Land’s End. However, the decision to take a holiday in the south had been made so spontaneously that they had not had a chance to send word to Penthwaithe’s manager, informing him of her arrival. In fact, it was somewhat uncertain as to who that manager was. Her solicitors had only just discovered the manor’s existence, as the title had been lodged between drawers, perhaps for years. Bess was the one who had decided they would go directly to Land’s End, spend the night there, and then settle in at the neighboring manor.
It seemed logical to go directly to Land’s End and ask Sir Rex for lodging for the night. But Blanche was traveling alone except for her maid, Meg. At the last possible moment, Felicia had become ill—a ploy, Blanche knew, as she had no wish to leave Lord Dagwood. But Bess’s daughter had taken a nasty spill from her hack. Bess had clearly wished to rush home and Blanche had assured her she wouldn’t mind taking the holiday alone.
And she didn’t mind. The solitude was striking, but it was oddly pleasing, too. She had been surrounded by friends and callers each and every day of her entire life. When she wasn’t entertaining or making calls, she was immersed in her charitable duties, which involved numerous appointments and meetings.
They had spent two entire days traveling from London. Every day, the villages had become fewer and farther between. Every day, they had begun passing fewer travelers and fewer estates. Today, they hadn’t seen a single vehicle other than their own. They had passed the last village several hours ago.
The isolation was magnificent, Blanche thought, and it was also a terrible relief. It wasn’t just escaping the headache of entertaining so many single gentlemen every day—and deciding which one she would marry. There were no more meetings with her agents, trying to unravel her father’s complex affairs. There were no callers and no calls. For this brief holiday, she had no duties and it was very enjoyable, indeed. She had the most surprising sense of freedom.
Blanche had been taking in every detail of the countryside for some time now. She was beginning to wonder if everyone was wrong about Land’s End. They had taken the turnoff marked Land’s End and Bodenick an hour past. The road they were now traveling on was very well maintained—and in far better condition than the main highway. Grazing cattle and sheep dotted the moors and they were fat and well fed, unlike most of the livestock she had previously seen.
Beside her, her maid shifted restlessly.
“Meg?” she asked.
Meg grimaced. “It’s so cold, my lady. So cold and so ugly!”
Blanche shook her head. “It is a chilly day, but how can you say the moors are ugly? There is beauty in their stark desolation, beauty and power. And did you see the ocean, Meg? This is truly God’s creation!”
Meg looked at her as if she were mad.
A number of buildings were coming into view and the hills were now crisscrossed with hedges. Blanche inhaled, suddenly glimpsing a castle with a single tower, its back to the horizon where the ocean blended seamlessly into the sky.
Land’s End was not a manor home after all, she realized, glancing out of her coach window so she could see the castle as they approached. Several towering trees had emerged, lining the approach to the courtyard, where a single oak tree butted up against the dark castle walls. A herd of magnificent horses espied her coach and took flight. Blanche sat up with delight, watching a number of huge, dappled horses galloping alongside her coach. The herd wheeled and vanished over a rise.
As her coach approached the courtyard, she looked everywhere, at once. Wild rosebushes and vines crept up the castle walls, but they were obviously being tended. She was not a historian, but the castle had to be centuries old—and it was in perfect condition, on the outside, at least. There were a number of stone buildings, and the beginnings of a new structure, which she guessed might be a stable. She saw several carts neatly ordered between the buildings, and she now heard hammering. There were some bushes near the tower, cleverly clipped. In fact, everything was terrifically neat and well kempt.
Land’s End did not to appear to be as impoverished as it was rumored. It was impeccably maintained, Blanche thought. Oddly, she was pleased. And the countess did not have to worry—her son was clearly preoccupied with his estate and had no time for town or his family’s matchmaking.
Her coach had stopped a short distance from Bodenick’s front door. Blanche suddenly hesitated. She had not sent word and Sir Rex did seem inclined toward his privacy. Still, she was a family friend, and now, apparently, a neighbor. Sir Rex would never send her away. But she suddenly wished she had delayed her trip by a single day, so a note could have warned him of her arrival, never mind what Bess thought best.
And for the first time in a week, she thought about Sir Rex’s failure to offer his condolences. If she truly dared admit it, that lapse in grace did bother her, and in a way, so did his failure to come forward as a suitor. On the other hand, she instinctively knew he was not a fortune hunter, even if his estate was modest enough to warrant his marriage for financial reasons. It had probably never crossed his mind to look at her as a prospective wife.
Blanche was uncomfortable with her thoughts. She hardly thought him suitable even as a candidate for her hand, much less as a husband, so there was no point in feeling a bit chagrined by his failure to come forward. She was a renowned society hostess and he was a notorious recluse, so they had a grave contradiction of character. And she did not want to think any more about it. But oddly, suddenly she wished Bess were with her. Suddenly she felt a bit awkward, calling like this. Suddenly, she was nervous.
Still, he had always been the perfect gentleman when their paths had crossed. She could not imagine him turning her away.
Blanche smiled at her footman and stepped to the ground. “Please wait until I have had a chance to ask Sir Rex for the night’s lodging before you take care of the horses. Meg? Please stay here with the coach until we know that Sir Rex is home.”
Meg nodded.
Blanche started for the front door, aware now of the litany that was the ocean echoing on the beaches below the castle. She knocked on the front door, and as she waited for a response, she glanced at the rosebushes growing against the castle walls. She had been right, they were wild, but Sir Rex clearly had a gardener tending them. She wondered when the last thaw was and when the roses would bloom.
She turned back to the door, knocking again, somewhat concerned. She had to have been standing there for a good five minutes.
“My lady?” Meg called from beside the coach. “Maybe no one is home.”
Knocking a third time, Blanche thought about that. While she wasn’t all that cold, Meg was chilled to the bone. If no one was home, they would go inside and wait while Clarence watered the team. Sir Rex couldn’t possibly mind.
She knocked very firmly and gave up when no one responded. Her maid was right—no one was home. And Meg was shivering so much her teeth were chattering. It was several hours back to the village and it was growing late. Surely, Sir Rex would not mind if they waited inside, or even if they made a fire. But she was unsure now. Why hadn’t a servant answered the door?
Blanche tested the door and it opened, allowing her to step inside a modestly sized front hall. She looked around. Much to her relief, a fire roared in the gray stone hearth, which looked to be as original as the castle. And that fire indicated that someone was certainly home.
She called out firmly. “Hello? Is anyone home?” But there was no answer.
She glanced around. The walls were freshly whitewashed, the furnishings modest but perfectly suitable and recently upholstered. There were only two seating arrangements, one in front of the hearth, making the hall seem far larger than it was. Only two rugs were present, but they were Oriental and of fine quality. She found the room pleasant. And then Blanche saw the display of sabers and firearms on one wall.
She intended to go outside and tell Meg to go to the laborers and ask after Sir Rex. Instead, very curious, she walked over to the display. She was certain that the weapons belonged to Rex and had been used by him in the late war.
She stared, unable to admire the collection. Two of the swords were ceremonial, their hilts filigreed gold, their sheaths gold and silver. She gazed at a long saber, with its dark, leather-wrapped, utilitarian hilt; and a shorter sword, its appearance equally as utilitarian and menacing. He had wielded these weapons in the war. She disliked the notion. She looked at the long carbine rifle, the butt dulled from use, and the shorter pistol. She was acutely aware that his hands had grasped the butts of those guns, just as he had wielded those swords. She didn’t care for the display. It gave her an uneasy, uncomfortable feeling. But then, the war had been tragic not just for Sir Rex, but for so many.
A noise sounded.
It was quite the thud.
And then more thudding began.
Blanche was surprised. The rather rhythmic noise was coming from behind an adjacent door, which she assumed belonged to the tower room. Was someone home after all? And if so, what on earth was going on?
She hesitated, staring at the closed door. “Sir Rex?” She tried from across the room.
She cleared her voice and raised it, approaching. “Sir Rex? Hello! Is anybody home?”
The banging rhythm had increased. And Blanche thought she heard a man’s voice, but without words—a sound of pain, perhaps.
Instantly alarmed, she hurried toward the door. But just as she reached it, she heard the same male sound again. And she realized what it was.
It was a growl of pleasure.
Blanche went still.
The banging continued, fast and fierce now.
Oh, God, she thought, stunned. For she had just realized someone in that room was making love.
She had been to countless balls and even more country weekends. She was well aware of the trysts that occurred in the ton, both behind closed doors and in the corners of corridors and mazes. She had walked past embracing couples numerous times, pretending not to see. But she had never seen more than a passionate kiss.
