Unveiling Love (9 page)

"You still want me? Mama was wrong?"

A tremor set in his jaw at the fear in her voice. His blasted pharaoh want-to-be mother-in-law. The tenuous reign on his emotions snapped. "You are mine, Amora. No matter what."

He lifted her to him and took her mouth. Gentle at first. Soft, so she could send him away. She leaned into him.

Tugging at her robe, he pushed the muslin down her arms. With his record-indexing finger, he hooked the ribbon in her hair and shook free her locks. Raven colored silk now draped her buttermilk skin.

This is how she'd looked on their wedding night. Eyes large, shining in the candlelight, waiting for what he'd do next.
 

Why wasn't he the first to behold her?
 

And the only one. How could he not have known?

Pride battered, he claimed her mouth again. Maybe their union now would assure her of his forgiveness and obscure all memories of others.
 

Maybe it would reassure him too that she was still his.

With one arm, he pushed away the bedclothes from the firm mattress below.
 

Nails stroking his shoulder, she found that spot on his back, the tender muscle that could be scored with her name. She didn't want to be freed, and he wouldn't let her go.
 

Her lips trembled beneath his. With a taste to her cheek, tears salted his tongue, seasoning the desire arcing inside. It had to be his name in her kiss, in her dreams, in her memories.

He sought every part of her, branding her with fevered hands. Descending upon her, Barrington kissed her until both gasped for air.

Amora opened her eyes to slits. Complete darkness surrounded her. Shivering, she wanted to close them again, but she couldn't. She had to know where she was. And where Barrington was too.

She moved her feet against the bedsheets. Sheets meant Mayfair, her home with Barrington.

 
Releasing a tight breath, she relaxed her coiled muscles a smidge. How to be sure? Filling her lungs to capacity, she shot up and grabbed the heavy silver candleholder from the bed table and swung in the chilly air.
 

Nothing was there.

She eased her weapon to the table then dropped to the mattress. Her candle had burnt out. Nothing more sinister. Letting the moonlight stream through the window, she fingered her matches and lit the stubby candle.
 

Her bedchamber, the grey walls, the sturdy white painted furnishings, all came into focus. Heart light, she rolled onto her side to snuggle next to Barrington's sleep warmed form, but the bed was empty. Pulling the bed sheets up to her chin, she caught the scent of him, a pleasant mix of starch and rainwater.

He must've gotten up to work. Very odd for him to do so and not make sure her candle was lit.

But Barrington may have other things on his mind. Her lip curled up releasing the glow flowing in her heart.

She'd told him.
 

And he still loved her.

Barrington was a good man, a good lover. Caring, thoughtful, nothing like the womanizing husbands of her cousins. But tonight, he was different. Unrestrained, maybe even out-of-control, not Barrington.
 

His searing kisses made her feel more than treasured, more than safe. He needed her. It had been a long time since he'd been desperate to touch her.
 

She fingered the outline of his empty space. This was a new beginning. They'd found each other again. She couldn't let his work separate them.

Popping up, she scooped on her robe. With her candle in hand, she set out for him. The house lay dark and quiet. Her eyes adjusted. She felt secure with her candle's glow. Feet still bare, she traipsed down the stairs and turned toward his study.

A small light came from his sealed door.

She opened it and found a chilly room with her poor husband slumped at his desk. His tanned brow contrasting the white parchment and foolscap stacked about his head.

Should she wake him? Would he begin asking questions she couldn't answer? Who did abducted her? Where did he drag her too?
 

He'd been so kind and understanding, but his thirst for truth overpowered at times. Maybe they could search for them together.
 

With Barrington still loving her, his strength would keep the memories from consuming her, wouldn't it?

Courage faltering, she almost pivoted. But she couldn't leave him, not in this cold. His hip would ache. Being shot dragging his best friend's body out of the path of the enemy was something he didn't talk much about, but she knew he kept it in his heart everyday.

Pattering to the hearth, she stoked the ashes. The dark gray and onyx char reminded her of charcoal sketches. For a moment, the poker was flint. She feathered along the grate. Maybe tomorrow she could make Barrington something.
   

With a shake, she stopped woolgathering and pushed coals together. Their orange heat expanded and warmed the next lump. She dumped on a log. It sparked, then smoked, and finally caught. The hearth just needed tending. Maybe their marriage worked like that. With her deception cleared, the coals of their love could be stoked again. Smiling inside, she put a couple of logs in the fireplace.

"Amora." His voice heavy with sleep reached her ears. She pivoted to him, but his face held stern lines.

"Go back to bed, sweetheart."

"I wanted to see about you." She lifted her hand to him. "Come with me."

He didn't move. The blank look in his grey eyes cut through her.
 

"I've a little more work to do. Go on, Amora. Return to your chambers."

With his need for passion sated, was she of no use to him? The idea of them working together faded away. Her arms pimpled, but not from the cold. Those embraces meant good bye. She'd lost him. His heart was dead to her. Nodding, she rushed to the door.

"I'll be up soon."

No, he wouldn't. Work was his first love. Now maybe his only. "Take your time."

On the other side of his door, she restrained herself from ramming her head. Her husband's pity was not needed. There was enough flowing from her own soul.

Barrington swiped at his forehead. It wasn't particularly warm in the Old Bailey's courtroom today, but his thoughts blazed. In fact, if he wasn't careful, he'd scorch his horsehair wig.

Order your thoughts, man.
Difficult to do when out there in the world lived another man who tricked Amora.
 

Discipline, man. Pretend Grandfather watched.
In a few minutes, the verdict would be rendered. Had he done enough to defend his client to absolve him of theft?

Half-listening would fail most. Luckily, Barrington wasn't most. Not when it came to the law. Yet, he must be a terrible man if his wife couldn't confide in him. Amora hadn't trusted his commitment, or she would have admitted the truth much earlier. Always working for others, perhaps he'd given her reasons to doubt his dedication to her and their marriage. Lord knows her miscarriage indicted him.

Her words echoed in his ear, 'I was abducted'
.
 

He grabbed the table leg of the barrister's bench and imagined placing his palms about the neck of the man who had treated her so shamefully. Who did it?

Could he forget it, being five years too late? Amora had.
 

But had she? The fear of the dark, was it from her attacker? Always needing to know where Barrington was, was that too from the fiend? Or was it in the hopes of keeping Barrington in the dark? What else did she have to hide?
 

And the way she dressed last night. Sheers, ruffles, textures that heightened his senses, his awareness of her. Was it all to manipulate him?

He cracked his knuckles as the crowd in the courtroom laughed and hooted. He released his hold on the desk, but couldn't focus.

Amora kept this dreadful secret and the villain never paid for hurting her.
 

Unless there was no villain.
 

A willing participant in a seduction would make for no crime. What was the truth? Was that why she couldn't tell Barrington?

Exhaling, he wiped the moisture beading upon his brow. No more thoughts of what can't be changed. He told Amora the
abduction
was in the past. Now, he needed to convince himself.

"Norton, are you well?" Hessing leaned closer. His onion-laced breath fouled the air.
 

"I'm well." He pivoted in time to watch Lord Justice Burns hit his gavel against his desk. The elegant sleeves of his court silks billowed with each pound. "Take a moment, jurymen, and consider your verdict."

Silence fell upon the crowd.

For once, Barrington wished he could see the crimson color of the robe. From all accounts, the hue spoke of power, and the Lord Justice knew how to use it.

The man leaned forward toward the jurymen. "What is the verdict?"

The lead juror leapt up and straightened his waistcoat. "Not guilty, Lord Justice."

The crowd erupted as the bailiff stepped forward and unchained Barrington's client.
 

"Winner." Hessing tapped his shoulder. "Join me for dinner at my club, Norton. I'd like to discuss a case with you, one dealing with an old crime. It involves murder."

"There's no time limit on murder." From the corner of his eye, Barrington spied Cynthia Miller waving to him from the gallery. "Sir."

A chortle bubbled from Hessing. "I see why you've been distracted, Norton. Sly fox." The man leaned forward as his gaze seemed set on the pretty songstress in a tight blue gown. Its bodice was incredibly low. I'll be at my club, if you get your hands free." His mentor chuckled and left the courtroom.
 

Barrington paced up the stairs. He didn't like Hessing thinking of Cynthia as a doxy. Though her choice of outfits needed more thought, she was Gerald's little sister. Someone who needed to be protected in her brother's absence.
 

Cynthia lifted her hand to him, but he avoided clasping it.
 

Instead, he folded his arms. No need to stoke gossip. He was a married man with a spotless reputation. Others might not think too kindly of such a fair woman warming to a mulatto. Barrington knew his limitations in society. "What are you doing here?"

Cocking back her head, she pouted. Her lips thinned to a child-like frown. "You haven't answered any of my correspondences or come to one of my reviews."

He leaned back on the knee wall of the gallery. "I've been very busy."
 

With a light stroke, she patted his arm. "You're mad at me. I meant no harm to Mrs. Norton. How was I to know she'd get upset and jump from my carriage?"

He cut his gaze to her. She leapt backwards as if she bled. "She didn't mention this. What made her upset?"

She swiveled her long neck and waved to an admiring gentleman or two. "I'd rather not say here."
 

Another of Amora's secrets. Yet, knowing the ladies fought wouldn't change things. He couldn't hold Cynthia responsible for his child's fate. The fault was his, for not being home to calm Amora down. For believing God cared enough to intervene.
 

A huff left his lips. "Come. Follow me to a witness room."
 

Down the stairs and to the right, he led her out of the courtroom through the hall to a small room. Once inside, he shut the door. Pulling off his wig and barrister's collar, he sat on the table's edge. "Miss Miller, I am very busy. Why are you here? I suspect it is not another theater invitation."

Again with a pout, and this time tears, she approached. "But you've always made time for me."
 

"Things are different. For some reason, you upset my wife. Could you tell me why?"
 

She pivoted and sashayed in front of the window. "What did Amora say?"

The urge to close the beige curtains to obscure onlookers from viewing the two of them pressed at his gut. He rubbed his brow. "This is my decision. I have to better prioritize my time."

"No, this is her doing. She hates me, just because I mentioned telling you of her disappearance."

Cynthia knew of the abduction? Her angelic looking face seemed to harden. Something in her squinting eyes looked vengeful. Why?
 

Barrington took off his court silk and tried to appear aloof. "She didn't mention an incident in your carriage, but why don't you tell me what you know of her disappearance. You seem eager to say."

Her eyes went wide as if she'd expected a different reaction. She dug into her reticule and pulled out a handkerchief. "I just know of the gossip. That she disappeared for one or two months. But she wants you to believe she waited for you like a saint."

A month? Not a day or two. His throat became dry like a desert, one scorched by lies. Years of training kept his countenance even. Cynthia didn't need to see the venom building in his muscles. Forgetting became impossible. He had to know the name of the blackguard who ran away with Amora, an engaged woman. "Do you know where she went? With whom?"
 

A tiny smile crept onto her face, but quickly disappeared. "No one knows. But I suspect it was one of the Charleton brothers." Her sweet tone took on haughty airs. "Both visited the Tomàs Orchards a great deal in your absence."

The dowager's sons? The earl of Clanville? Or his younger brother, the rake Charleton? Which one had hurt Amora?

"Did she mention that?" Bosom heaving, Cynthia leaned over the table. She was putting on quite a show, if someone were interested.
 

He lifted his gaze to the window and hid his balling fists beneath his silk. He was a respected barrister not a young buck ready to bloody every nose.

Cynthia put a hand on his shoulder. "But I need help. It's dire."

"What?"

She launched into his arms. So quick was the action, her straw bonnet fell away. Her chignon unraveled.
 

His fingers tangled in the stiffness of the locks. "What is it, woman?"