Chapter 18 #2
“Moira,” she said. “Did you own slaves?”
His face stilled, the smile fading. “Have you wondered that all along?”
She nodded.
“Are you an abolitionist, Veronica?”
She hadn’t expected him to ask her that. “I think I am, yes,” she said, placing one hand flat on the placket.
He didn’t answer her question, time ticking by achingly slow.
“You’re not,” she finally said.
“I’m like my grandfather,” he said. “He refused to own another man.” He smiled again, but this smile was sadder, wreathed in memory. “My grandfather used to say we have dominion over the earth and over the seas, but not over other men.”
“So Gleneagle had no slaves?” she asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
He turned, moving to the window, pushing back the drapes until he could see the view of the glen darkened by night.
Should she take back her question?
Before she could do so, he turned, his back to the window, the heels of his hands braced on either side of him on the windowsill. He stretched out his legs, studied his boots, then the interior of her bedroom, taking time to answer the question.
Perhaps she really should take it back, but curiosity kept her silent.
“You’re a Fairfax now. You deserve to know the history,” he said. “My grandfather purchased slaves. Growing tobacco takes people. The moment a man was brought to Gleneagle, he was freed. He was under contract to work for five years, and after that, could leave or stay, as he wished.”
She remained silent, intent on his words.
“When my grandfather died, my father stopped the practice. Maybe he was greedier. I often wondered if it was the influence of my mother’s family. They openly ridiculed my grandfather’s actions, seeing it as fiscally unsound.”
He folded his arms in front of him and studied the carpet.
“Evidently, economic expediency trumps moral certainty,” he said.
“The English abolished slavery more than thirty years ago,” she said.
He nodded as if he knew.
“It was the one issue separating my brothers and me,” he continued. “They followed my father’s example. I took my own path.”
“Which was?”
He turned and faced the window again. “To walk away from all that my family held dear. To choose my conscience over my kin.”
“Your grandfather wouldn’t have approved of what your father or brothers did.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “No, he wouldn’t have.”
“But I think he would have approved of your being the 11th Lord Fairfax of Doncaster,” she said.
He smiled but didn’t respond.
“It must’ve been very difficult for you,” she said softly. “Disagreeing with those you loved.”
“Have you never disagreed with those you loved?” he asked, his attention on the view from the window.
She thought about those years with her uncle’s family in London. She’d been miserable, not finding very much of a common ground with anyone. She’d felt a familial tie with them; her uncle was her mother’s brother, after all. But had she loved them? Not the way she’d loved her parents.
“I cannot imagine disagreeing with my parents,” she said.
“As you said, it was difficult. After a while, the difficult becomes commonplace.”
“Are they dead? Your brothers?”
He didn’t answer for a moment, but when he did, his answer was not unexpected. “Yes,” he said simply.
She came to stand at the window beside him.
What she felt from him defied her description of it.
Pain was there, yet something else, a memory of joy, a bittersweet longing.
She suddenly understood how much he wished to be home.
But home was not just a place for him, it was more.
To be surrounded by the familiar, the beloved, those people who’d made up his life.
Could Montgomery ever truly go home?
For now, they’d leave the past behind.
“So you found yourself a lord,” she said, pasting a smile on her face, “came to England, and became a husband. Enough difficulty for one man, I would think.”
“And you, Veronica?” he asked, turning. “You found yourself wife to a stranger, an American. Enough difficulty for one woman, I would think.”
She didn’t answer him.
“I try to stay away. Somehow, I always find my way here.”
His honesty startled her.
She unfastened the rest of her buttons.
“No more questions?” he asked.
“No,” she said, as honest as he’d been. “It’s foolish to pretend. You come near me, and I want to make love to you.”
At that, he was the one to look startled.
“You’re the most amazing woman.”
“Am I?” She smiled. “Amazing enough that you’ll continue to talk to me? I know nothing of you, Montgomery.”
“On the contrary, Veronica, you know a great deal about me.” His smile was slightly wicked.
“I’m not talking about how you look naked, Montgomery. I’m talking about what you do all day in the distillery, or what your plans are for your balloon.”
She stood in front of him, placed her hands on his arms, and allowed her fingers to trail from his upper arms down to his wrists and back, needing to touch him. He’d taken off his coat, but his shirt was in the way.
“We won’t talk about the past. Can we talk about now? Or what might come in the future?”
His eyes stayed fixed on her face. Yet he gave her no hint of his thoughts as silence stretched between them.
She closed her eyes, reached out, and tried to feel the emotions coming from him. Heat. Desire. Need. A loneliness so acute it mimicked her own.
“Veronica.”
Her eyes flew open at the sound of his voice. Low and soft, it had the effect of causing her skin to pebble.
“What price do you demand for a kiss?” he asked, gripping her waist with both hands and pulling her close.
“I’ll give that to you as a gift, Montgomery.”
He pulled her up until she was standing on tiptoe. Her arms wound around his neck, and his lips were on hers. It felt like a lifetime since he’d kissed her.
When he released her, she laid her forehead against his chest, breathing hard.
“What else do you want to know, my inquisitive wife?”
She wanted, desperately, to ask about Caroline, but suspected he would leave if she did. She took another moment to compose herself, then asked, “What do you do in the distillery?”
“I’m developing a navigation system for my airship. It’s in the early stages yet.”
She pulled back and looked up at him. “Why?”
“Come to the distillery next week, and I’ll show you.”
He’d never welcomed her there, and on the few occasions when she’d strayed to the building, had been annoyed at her appearance.
“I’m not taking off my nightgown yet,” she said.
“I’m answering your questions.”
How many women in America had he charmed with that smile? How many women had nearly swooned at his appearance?
He placed his hand on her left breast, gently cupping the linen. His thumb stroked against her nipple.
She closed her eyes at the sensation. A moment later, she opened them again as a thought occurred to her.
“Would you prefer I didn’t feel anything when you touched me?”
He lowered his head until his lips brushed her temple.
“That’s a question too foolish to answer.”
“I can’t help feeling things when you touch me,” she said.
“We’ll keep it a secret between us,” he said. “I’ll never divulge you’re a harlot in the bedroom and a lady in the parlor.”
“I wasn’t very proper in the parlor, either,” she said, trying to concentrate when he was gently squeezing a nipple. Heat pooled between her thighs. “Have you visited many harlots?”
“I don’t think that’s a question I’m going to answer. If I do, I will demand something quite large in return.”
“What would that be?” she asked. When had she become so breathless?
His hand had not moved, and two of his fingers were plucking at her nipple. The soft linen magnified the effect of his touch, sending a spear of heat down through her body.
“The entire nightgown,” he said. “All at once. I want you naked, Veronica.”
The game had become a tug-of-war between them, something almost forbidden, and therefore even more exciting.
“I think not,” she said.
His lips began to trail down her throat, and she tilted her head back to give him better access. He was cheating, in his way, but it felt so delicious, she didn’t challenge him.
“How did you become so adept at lovemaking?” she asked, feeling his lips curve against the tender spot just below her chin.
“Is that a proper question for a wife to ask?”
“No,” she corrected him, “I’m a harlot at this moment. Not a wife. Not a lady.”
“Then you should definitely be naked.”
“I’m a very expensive harlot, Montgomery. A man must earn the right to bed me.”
“I’ve answered all your questions,” he said, bending to kiss her.
She reached out with both hands and gripped the material of his shirt.
Her fingers scraped against his fabric-covered skin.
She wanted to feel him, feel her skin against his, the friction of damp flesh against damp flesh.
She wanted him inside her, bringing her release, coupling with her in a dance of pleasure and passion.
If she were playing the harlot, she should excel at her role. She stepped back, took his hand, and led the way to her bed. She stripped off the nightgown, extinguished the lamp, and slid beneath the covers, reaching for him.
In seconds, Montgomery was naked and joining her.
She trembled when he touched her, reached out a hand and closed it over his hard length and guided it to her wetness. If it were possible to need too much, then she did. She wanted the connection, ached for the pleasure.
He drove into her. Her body, pierced by pleasure, arched in response. Her fingers clenched on his shoulders before reaching down to grip his hips.
Her skin was slick, her heart pounding. She wanted to experience it all, the feel of Montgomery, the wildness of his passion, the strength of his body, the sound he made when his head arched back, and his face tightened.
They were separate people, each strangers to the other. They came together in passion, though, didn’t they? If that was the only way they could communicate, then so be it.
It would do for the moment.