The Loving Spirit Page 10

  The only light in the room came from a crack in the curtains around the bed. She was in total darkness. Neither could see the other, but she could feel him looming over her. Then his hand was on her head, gliding over the lush stream of hair that by day was hidden. But in the darkness there was freedom and no need to hide.

  His fingertips briefly rested against her mouth. Hush! We must not speak of what we do in secret. Even without his signal she could have made no sound, for her heart was thumping wildly and she could barely catch her breath. Just the lightest touch on her lips had caused a storm of sensation that shook her.

  There was a rustle and the sound of his dressing-gown falling to the floor. Putting up her hands she discovered that he was naked and his skin was as heated as her own. He drew her to her feet, pulled her against him, and then his lips were on hers.

  Again his mouth worked bewildering magic, but this time she was distracted by other sensations, the feel of her bare breasts against his skin, and the shock as she felt her nipples hardening with excitement, something she’d never dreamed of. More startling than anything was the pressure of his erect manhood against her. Her brief glimpse of his nakedness the night she’d gone to his room hadn’t prepared her for the power and implacable purpose she sensed in him now. It thrilled her and she pressed herself against him with renewed urgency.

  She began to run her hands over him. She knew she should be ashamed. No lady allowed a man to excite her physically, or let him know it if he had. No decent woman revelled in the male body or explored it with devouring curiosity. But now she, who had been reared on these precepts, discovered that they were false. The truth was that she had been born for this moment, and nobody had told her.

  She felt the cool sheet beneath her back. She was on the bed and he was lying beside her. Suddenly she was afraid. This had happened once before, and she had known only pain and disgust. But with this man it was different. Her body actively wanted him, already so hot with desire, that her blood pulsed swiftly through her veins and her heart thundered.

  And the man himself was different, not selfishly seizing her and taking what he wanted, but touching her with hands that were gentle even while they were urgent. He touched her everywhere, in a way that would once have outraged her modesty, but now she seemed to have no modesty left. She had discarded it gladly like an unwanted garment. Her breasts had lived only for the moment when he caressed them with his lips and the ravishing seductiveness of that sensation nearly sent her out of her mind. She responded with the fervour of a woman possessed, giving and receiving in mindless delight.

  His hand was between her legs, seeking and finding her, asking if she were ready for him, discovering her eagerness. At once he came over her and then she felt him driving slowly into her, large, powerful, filling her with himself. After the first shock she clung to him, holding on tight, wanting more. He began to move inside her, thrusting deeply, increasing the sensation every time.

  A sound came up from her very depths, not a cry but something like a roar such as a tigress might have given. She was discovering her true self, and her true self was a fierce blazing creature, wild, untamed, predatory, furiously demanding, brooking no refusal. In the hot night, the tigress roamed through the jungle, seeking satisfaction, taking it where she pleased, mating with a creature as wild as herself, matching him passion for passion.

  He was murmuring incoherent words. She listened, fearful that he would call her Amelia, but he never spoke a name, and she understood that it must be so, for names shackled them to their daytime selves.

  His movements were growing faster, he was driving into her harder and the pleasure was mounting, so that it seemed that she would die under the intensity, until abruptly the world vanished, and she became pure light, renewing itself again and again, until it went out altogether.

  It was over, and she was drifting down from some unknown height that she had never dreamed of, but now was condemned to seek again and again, falling back into herself with heart thundering and body aching, exhausted yet triumphant.

  In her elation she reached for him, but he drew back from her, and then his hands were gone from her body, leaving it bereft. She heard him move away and sensed that he was sitting on the edge of the bed. She could hear his harsh breaths, then the faint whisper of movement as he rose, took up his dressing-gown and moved to the door, opening and closing it quietly.

  Silence. She was alone. It might never have happened.

  Only the soft thrumming in her flesh reminded her that something had changed forever. It was like having a different body, being a different person. Instead of the dry, passionless, half-dead creature that had lived for the last fifteen years, she was a woman who had offered herself to a man, glorying in his desire for her, shamelessly inciting him to deeper and yet deeper intimacy.

  She knew now that she had lived only a half life all these years, that she had borne a child without knowing the truth about men and women. And the truth was that the separate worlds they inhabited were only pale shadows of that other world where they became one. And that world was a glorious place, where the flesh sang and the heart was high.

  But it was a world that faded and died. And she was alone.

  She did not sleep that night. And nor, she knew, did he. Through the door she could hear him pacing and knew that he was troubled. He would feel that he had betrayed Amelia, and would dread to meet Kate the next day, lest she look or speak to him with some consciousness that reminded him of the betrayal, and increased his guilt.

  But she was wiser than that. What had happened was a secret for the darkness, and would remain so. Not by word or deed would she embarrass him by day. But at night he would come to her and they would enter another world together, one where there were no names or faces.

  She was up early next morning and in the dawn light she looked down at her own naked body and thought of the things it had done last night, what it had craved and given, the cries that had come from it. For the first time she saw her own flesh as more than something to be decently covered. Her breasts were high, full and firm, almost like a young girl’s. Her waist was narrow, her flanks long and elegant. It was the body of a woman made for love, a body that a man could desire.

  On the thought, his own body seemed to be there with her. She hadn’t seen it last night but she knew every inch of it, the feel of the muscles under the skin, the broad, smooth chest, the strength in the arms, the power in the loins.

  The memory of him inside her made her gasp as the craving started up again. She mustn’t think of that. Not yet. Not until tonight, when she would lie beneath him again, welcoming him deep inside her.

  She dressed quickly and went downstairs to find the house in a bustle. Servants were carrying bags across the great hall and out through the front door to the waiting chaise. The meaning hit her like a blow and she had to stand still, holding on to the banister until she had recovered her breath. It couldn’t be true. He couldn’t be doing this.

  A door opened and Justin emerged, fully dressed and wearing a greatcoat with several capes.

  ‘It’s time I paid a visit to some of my other estates,’ he said. ‘I’ve neglected them too long, and I can leave you in charge here with an easy mind.’

  ‘But,’ she stammered, ‘so unexpectedly...you made no mention...’

  ‘Things change,’ he said without looking at her. ‘It is necessary for me to go.’

  With passion still singing in her blood she wanted to cry out at losing him so soon. She couldn’t hold back a small gasp and it was enough to make him look up. In the brief meeting of their eyes, she saw her own thoughts and desires, the pain and struggle they had cost him. And she understood that she had made his suffering greater.

  ‘I’m sure you understand,’ he said, ‘that I must be away for some time.’ His voice grew softer, for her alone. ‘Please, Kate.’ He looked haggard and ill, as though guilt was destroying him. He must make himself safe, and so he was fleeing her.

  ‘I
understand,’ she said gently. ‘And all is well.’

  ‘Thank you.’ His words were almost inaudible.

  She sent for the children and they stood beside her on the steps to bid him farewell. The boys shook his hand and Grace reached up to kiss him. When he reached Kate he raised his eyes as though wary of what he would find in hers.

  She smiled. ‘Take care of yourself.’ Her voice was calm and friendly.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Kate.’

  ‘Will you be all right?’ she asked softly.

  He nodded. ‘Yes...I thank you.’ She put out her hand. He took it, but at the last moment he leaned down and kissed her cheek.

  He climbed into the chaise, the driver gave the horses the office to start, and the next moment they were rumbling away. Kate watched until the vehicle was out of sight, then sent the children into the house. When she was sure she was alone she went to the rose arbour. Here, only here, there might be solace.

  But there was no solace. Only the cold wind rustling in the trees, and the onset of winter.

  Chapter Six

  Lord Farringdon had an extensive choice of places to visit. Apart from Farringdon Park, his principal seat in Hampshire, he owned various small estates in the north of England and one in Scotland. In the months following his departure, he visited these conscientiously, one by one. All except Davington Manor.

  It was the smallest of all his properties and was being exceedingly well managed by his steward. There was really no need for him to go there at all. He told himself this many times, always trying not to examine the real reason he wished to avoid the place: it was where he and Amelia had spent their honeymoon.

  It had been her wish.

  England had been briefly at peace at the time, and he’d offered to take her on a Continental trip, Rome, Paris, wherever she pleased. But she had wanted only to be alone with him.

  ‘Just a little place where we can hide from the world, Ned,’ she’d said softly.

  And so they’d gone to the tiny manor, and found an earthly paradise.

  Since then they’d returned several times, always without their children, so that they could once more enjoy being alone together, sheltered by the love that had never failed them. Now he couldn’t bear the place and its memories. So, when he had visited every one of his English properties, except Davington,

  he turned his face north and went to Scotland, accompanied only by his man, Ferris, for he preferred to travel light.

  At every stop he conscientiously wrote to Lady Farringdon, as he mentally referred to her. He never thought of Kate as his wife. The night they had shared lived in his mind not as a conjugal act, but as an infidelity for which he suffered. Amelia had begged him to marry Kate, but only for the sake of their children. She could never have pictured those moments of fierce desire in Kate’s arms, the memory of which tormented him with guilt.

  Christmas came. He meant to return home, but a heaviness seized him, and he remained where he was, solitary in Scotland. The post brought small notes from his children, in most of which he thought he detected Kate’s influence. Certainly, he thought, Jack and Charlie had never penned those thoughtful missives without help. But Grace had scribbled her offering in coloured pencil, quite alone, and he smiled to think of the effort she must have made. Philip’s letter was like the boy himself, thoughtful and reserved, with just a hint of the feelings beneath.

  It seems strange to have Christmas without Mama, although Kate is very kind. She does everything as we’ve always done, including the party for the servants, and buying them gifts. We played Blind Man’s Buff, and when it was my turn to wear the blindfold I found myself holding on to Kate. And just for a moment I imagined that Mama had come back to us. But only for a moment, because Kate isn’t really the same at all.

  He folded the letter away, unable to read more. His son’s innocent words had made a door spring open in his mind, one that might better have remained closed.

  Kate wasn’t the same at all.

  At first he’d thought darkness was his friend, letting him pretend that his beloved Amelia was there in his arms again. He’d discovered his mistake in seconds. Amelia had smelled of lavender and thyme, and she’d loved him sweetly, fondly. The woman lying naked with him had a hot scent that startled him, spicy, animal. It was like mating with a tigress

  At the height of his pleasure, a shaft of moonlight lad fallen across her face, showing him a stranger. This wild creature with her tousled hair and her glittering eyes was nobody he knew. When, next day, he’d met Kate with her quiet demeanour he’d almost refused to believe that she was the same person. There had been some mistake, she’d changed beds wth one of the maids. Impossible as it sounded he could have believed it more easily than reconcile the tigress of the night with her demure daytime persona.

  But then their eyes had met and for a heated moment everything was there between them: the wild cries, the tormenting memories, the urgent desire to repeat the experience. He’d known that she was his bad angel, and he must get away from her.

  He’d tried to explain it to himself. He had lived like a monk for months, not only since Amelia’s death, but in the last months of her pregnancy, for he had been a faithful husband. It had been hard for he was a man who lived through his bodily sensations rather than his mind, but the pains of celibacy had been his tribute to the wife he adored. Small wonder that he had succumbed to temptation with a woman to whom he was at least legally married.

  But while that explanation might satisfy him for a while it didn’t allow for the violent pleasure he had known with her, and which he didn’t dare to let himself think of again. Not yet. Unable to trust himself, he had fled.

  In none of Kate’s letters had she ever reproached him for coming to her bed and then deserting her. She wrote of the house and the children. When she spoke of herself it was in a calm, passionless way, as a friend who asked nothing from him except that he look after himself. The trust that had been growing between them was gone, replaced by caution, but now he began to write back to her more freely.

  He was still in Scotland when the snow came, heavy blizzards that tore across the moors and piled drifts against the walls. In the bleak new year he would go out walking, ignoring the pleas of his servants. Somehow he always found his way safely home, although often he himself had no memory of how.

  The bitter rages of his youth, once a thing of the past, returned to plague him, and now there was no Amelia to calm his torment, and no Kate to bring him down to earth. The fear of madness returned, and he trudged long distances through the snow, fleeing the furies that shrieked at his shoulder, only to find them ahead, luring him on to some place he half dreaded, half longed for.

  Shadows danced before him, constantly changing form. Lacking food, he became light-headed until the shadows were reality. Soon they were his companions, the only ones he cared for or could communicate with. They screamed at him through the storm, and he shouted back.

  It was no surprise to him when he saw Amelia. He had always known she would return in answer to his desperate pleas, and when at last she appeared her arms were open to him. He would have run to her, but suddenly she changed into Kate, gesturing violently to thrust him back. He called to her, not knowing which name he used, and tried to hurry forward, but while she was warning him away he found he couldn’t move. Then the wind fell and in the sudden clearing he found he was standing at the edge of a long drop. Another foot and he would have plunged to his death.

  He looked around at the moors. In every direction they stretched as far as the eye could see, white, bleak, endless. He was alone. Quite alone.

  Somehow he made his way back to the house. A fever had seized him and he knew nothing about the next few days, until he awoke, almost too weak to move. He prided himself on not being a fanciful man. He knew there must be some rational explanation for what had happened. But what stayed with him, obscurely comforting, was the way the two women had blended into one.

  When he could sit ou
t of bed he ordered pen and paper and began to write to Kate. Strain and tension had left him and the words flowed. On and on he wrote, oblivious to the strange looks his servants gave him. They were nervous of him now. They had heard the words he shouted in his delirium, and some of them crossed themselves as they passed his door.

  At a safe distance from Kate, he found it was easy to tell her about his experience on the moor, knowing she would understand. She accepted the news without surprise, writing simply:

  I promised her that I would look after you, and now she will know that I kept my word.

  He had known of the closeness between the two women, but seeing it expressed in such a way gave him a strange feeling as though the air was singing about him. He saw again the vision in the snow, one woman blending into another. Kate’s promise was a sacred trust. To fulfil it there was nothing she would not do.

  And there again was the tormenting, irresistible memory: the naked body against his, mindless with desire, the wild cries, the hoarse whispers, the strength of her, pulling him deeper inside her until the explosion of passion that consumed them both. Nothing she would not do.

  The thought should have brought him comfort, for if Kate had been only Amelia’s deputy there was no betrayal. But he could feel no comfort, only a strange chill. She had been doing what she perceived as a duty. No more.

  He’d half thought he might return home, but now he changed his mind, and only went as far as Davington Manor. He was there for Amelia’s birthday, and on the morning there was a letter from Philip, enclosing a drawing.

  Spring is nearly here and Mama’s rose arbour will soon be flowering, Philip had written. I tried to capture her as I remember her, and I thought you would like to see. The others think it looks just like Mama. We are getting ready for her birthday.

  The picture showed a woman sitting among flowers, and by some miracle Philip had achieved a likeness, not just of Amelia’s features, but of her sweet expression.