CHAPTER TWELVE #3
Lucy’s heart skipped a beat. Holding to the door as if her life depended on it, she began carefully to close it. At the last instant, her fingers slipped. The door escaped from her grasp and shut to with a click that sounded like a pistol shot in the dead quiet of the night.
Lucy froze, staring at the bed, her heart jumping. A shadow shifted and she saw the outline of Stefan’s head rising, his face a pale gleam of whiteness in the gloom.
“Lucy?”
It came to her she was standing just behind the hazy square made by the moonlight on the floor and must be near visible to him. Without thinking, she stepped into the light, feeling it hit her, although her eyes were fixed upon the shadow in the bed. Her tongue did not wait for her command.
“I could not sleep.”
In the pause, Lucy became aware of the thudding of her heart within her breast. Somewhere on the edges of her consciousness she knew she was about to cross an invisible line towards the irrevocable.
Without a word, Stefan took hold of the covers and opened them to expose an empty space beside him.
Lucy’s hesitation lasted but seconds. Then she scurried to the bed and scrambled in. The covers closed over her and next moment she had been dragged close into Stefan’s warm embrace.
For several moments, Stefan kept her wrapped against his length, holding her captive while a riot of surmises rolled around his mind.
Had he distressed her with his fumbling complaints?
He was an oaf and a fool. Why could he not have kept his mouth shut?
His own sleep had been fitful, interrupted with remembrance and futile self-blame in between snatches where he dozed.
When all he wanted was Lucy’s happiness, he had only added to her burdens.
It was inexpressibly heart-warming that she had come to him. But as the scent and feel of her invaded his senses, he began to realise his danger. The last thing he must do was to break her trust by seducing her.
He felt Lucy nestle, making herself more comfortable. Stefan could feel her soft breath against his neck as she moved her head to rest upon his arm.
“I love you, Stefan, so very much.”
The murmur reached him through a haze, but his heart contracted nevertheless and his arm about her briefly tightened. “That is good to hear,” he whispered.
A sleepy chuckle answered him. “Then I shall make a habit of saying it.”
“Even better,” he said, and turned his head to rest his lips against her hair.
Lucy’s arm stole about his chest and her mouth grazed the exposed skin at his neck. Stefan drew in a silent breath and held it, willing the ache in his loins to subside.
“I love you, love you, love you…”
The words faded on a sigh and Lucy’s body softly sagged so Stefan felt more of her weight. He waited a moment.
“Lucy?”
Her even breathing answered him. She was asleep. Stefan threw his free hand under his head and stared into the darkness, resigning himself to hours of wakeful discomfort.
Lucy drifted out of sleep into a grey world of alien flesh and unfamiliar aromas. For several seconds she could not remember where she was.
Bit by bit it was borne in upon her she was lying face to face with Stefan with her head pillowed on his arm.
Shock held her silent and still, her eyes roving the sleeping features on the pillow beside her.
A patch of warmth gradually resolved itself into the realisation that Stefan’s hand was resting on her bare hip. Under her nightgown!
Flame burst into life inside her and shot downwards to roar like a furnace in her secret inner depths. A gasping cry escaped Lucy’s lips and her limbs shuddered uncontrollably, half flailing under the covers.
Beside her, Stefan woke with a jerk. He reared up in the bed, turned quickly and took in Lucy’s condition in one sweep across her semi-exposed limbs. Without thought, he threw himself half over her, catching her into him, and murmuring words of reassurance.
“It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s no matter. Be still now, be still.”
Lucy was jelly, wracked by tremors she could not control. “It’s not all right. I am on fire!”
Stefan’s hand ran comfort all along her back and down her thigh, hushing her as he lowered his head to hers.
“There is nothing to fear, my sweet, I promise you.”
Then his lips sought hers and Lucy stilled beneath his hold. The sensation of his mouth upon hers was exquisite, the velvet softness of his tongue a touch of wine and magic.
Lucy felt his hand stroking the flesh of her thigh, and gasped, pulling out of the kiss. Stefan’s arm beneath her tugged her to him and Lucy uttered a little cry that was not of pleasure.
“You’re prickly!”
Stefan lifted his head, a laugh escaping. “I beg your pardon. Near a day’s growth of beard, I’m afraid.”
Lucy freed her hand and reached up to his face, feeling his cheek. It felt rough, but not unpleasantly so. She saw him watching her, a lurking smile in his eyes. A rush of affection flooded Lucy. “Oh, but I love you so.”
His eyes lit and Lucy impulsively reached behind his head and pulled him to her, setting her mouth to his again.
She heard his indrawn breath and felt the muscles harden in his legs.
Only now did she recognise how entangled were their limbs.
And then she lost herself in the intense pleasure of his kisses.
The heat engendered by the ministrations of his mouth upon hers was so intense, Lucy could not have imagined anything could surpass it. But presently she felt the brush of his fingertips against her inner thigh. Heat streaked through her and she bucked.
“Gently, my love,” he said softly. “We have all the time in the world.”
Sighing, Lucy relaxed and gave herself up to his lovemaking.
They arrived in Upledon to a scene of disorder.
The to-ing and fro-ing of workmen carting trunks and items of furniture from two wagons parked in the road, showed evidence that the new incumbent had arrived at the vicarage and was in the process of moving in.
Upon enquiry of a burly porter, it was discovered the curate was at that moment showing the new vicar around the parish.
Lucy regarded the chaos with dismay. “We will never manage a private conversation with Mr Waley with all this going on.”
“Don’t fret,” Stefan advised, casting a look of disfavour upon the proceedings. “I will take you to the Half Moon, and then come back and extract the fellow myself.”
Lucy was sceptical that even Stefan could manage to interrupt the business of the day successfully. But having partaken of refreshment in her company, Stefan set off on foot while Cobbold attended to the horses.
Lucy chafed and worried for an hour or more over what she would say to Mr Waley, should Stefan manage to find him and bring him to their private parlour in the Half Moon. And then she recognised the curate’s voice.
Running to the door, she opened it and peered down the passage. There was Mr Waley, ushering a stout gentleman into the tap room. There was no sign of Stefan. Sheer luck had brought the man just where he was most wanted.
Lucy stepped out through the door. “Mr Waley.”
He halted in the doorway and looked back, starting a little. “Miss Lucy!”
Lucy took a few steps towards him. “Mr Waley, I must speak with you.”
She thought his thin features registered surprise, but in the darkness of the passage she could not be sure.
“One moment, if you please.”
He disappeared into the taproom, and Lucy waited, in a state of impatience and agitation. The instant he came out, she called to him again. “Pray come into the parlour.”
He did as she asked, and Lucy closed the door behind him, then moved to the other side of the table, the better to confront him.
“Miss Lucy, I did not expect to see you. And so soon. Why have you returned?”
Lucy thought she detected a little rise of expectation as he looked at her through his spectacles. “I have come expressly to see you.”
Was it the light of hope? Lucy took some satisfaction from the knowledge that if it was, she was about to dash it from his eyes.
“You have not come alone, I trust?” he asked, seeming to realise for the first time there was no one else in the room.
“No, I have not.”
She did not elaborate. Wherever Stefan was at this moment, there would be time enough for Mr Waley to learn of his presence.
“Mr Waley.” A quick frown came into his face, and Lucy was pleased to note her tone had an effect.
“Yesterday I was at St Bride’s church in Much Marcle.
” He started. Was there a shade of guilt?
“I learned there that my mother Alice Oade was married to the late Lord Pennington some six months before I was born.”
She waited for some sign of surprise or exclamation. Mr Waley did indeed raise his brows, and draw in his cheeks, making his face ever more skeletal. But he did not speak.
Lucy was struck anew with the flood of resentment that had assailed her last night. “Can you not guess why I have come, Mr Waley? You were curate there at that time. The entry was written in your hand, for I recognised it almost immediately.”
His lips pursed, and he looked away from her. “Yes. Yes, I suppose it was certain you must do so, were you ever to see it.”
“But you never meant me to see it, did you?” she blazed, moving closer.
“How could you keep it from me? You must have known — or remembered — when my aunt told you and you looked for the entry of my birth in the church here. It could not have escaped you. Pray do not try to tell me so, for I know for a fact you revisited St Bride’s in the recent past.”
The curate swayed a little, and staggered slightly. Lucy started forward automatically, but he held up a hand to stop her. “I am all right. If you will forgive me, I will sit down for a moment.”
Lucy went to the table and tugged out a chair with some violence, looking at him pointedly.
“Thank you.” He sat, and Lucy saw how his breathing seemed shallow. Despite all, her compassion was stirred. “Are you unwell, Mr Waley?”