03 - Dreams of Destiny Page 10

  The vengeance of heaven shall surely overtake the wicked! The blood of—

  Gwyneth yelped in protest when David snatched the notebook out of her hands. She dove after it across the seat, but he managed to sweep her to the side, staying her with one arm as he held the open notebook with the other hand.

  “Give it back to me this instant, you blackguard.” She tried to reach around him. “You have no right to read my private writing.”

  “I have given you more than enough opportunity to share your work with me.”

  “But I don’t care to.”

  “But you did at one time in our lives.”

  “Because I liked you then. But I do not anymore. In fact, I am growing to hate you. Now give that back to me.” Gwyneth struggled to reach around him again, but she froze when David’s lips pressed against her neck. The unexpectedness of it made the fight drain out of her. The breath caught in her chest, and she felt suspended in midair when his lips moved down to the neckline of the dress. A moment later, he was nibbling on her earlobe.

  “You taste quite good.”

  She moved her face slightly toward him, and David’s mouth was there.

  The kiss was hot and consuming, and Gwyneth’s body caught fire when David lifted her onto his lap. Her arms closed around his neck, and his mouth was relentless. There was no holding back. She couldn’t. She poured all her frustration and temper into the fervor of the kiss, trying to punish him for what he was doing to her. But she ended up punishing herself, as her body strained for more. She couldn’t explain it, didn’t try to understand it, but she ached to be closer. She wanted to touch and be touched. David’s hands were all over her back, her sides, pressing her against him. She was suddenly aware of the bulge of his hardening manhood beneath her.

  She couldn’t deny it. There was no ignoring how his touch made her feel. Gwyneth’s mouth feasted on him ravenously, and she let out a soft cry of satisfaction when his hand cupped and gently squeezed her breast. The reality was so much sweeter than her imagination. The insatiable excitement rushing through her surpassed anything she could have dreamed.

  “After today, you can never say there is nothing between us,” he growled, tearing his mouth away. His teeth scraped against the sensitive skin of her neck. “And I promise the pleasure you’ll feel when I make love to you will make you forget any fumbling attempts you have had to endure from that cowardly dolt of yours.”

  His words were like a bucket of ice water over flames. Gwyneth froze when he reached for the hem of her skirt. He captured her mouth under his lips, but she pulled her face away, crying out softly as she felt his palm touch the bare skin of her leg and move upward.

  Breathless, she knew that she had to stop him. At the same time she was lost for words. His hand was on the inside of her leg, her skirts were pushed up, her skin burned from the excitement…but her mind was racing.

  “David!” she gasped.

  He thought she was experienced in these things. He assumed that she had already had a relationship with the man she was eloping with.

  “You are as soft as silk.” His lips were again on her neck, his palm moving ever slowly upward.

  “David…no,” she whispered. “I never have…”

  His hand reached the juncture of her thighs, and she would have leapt from his lap if his other arm were not looped tightly around her. She grabbed for his wrist, forcing reason to pierce the haze of passion fogging her mind.

  “Please, do not!” Gwyneth managed to get out. His fingers stilled. She forced herself to look into his eyes. “Despite…what you assume…about me, I have never done this. No one has ever touched me. I’ve never gone down this path before.”

  His hand withdrew, gently pulling the skirts down her legs again. Her face was burning. She moved off his lap, but he didn’t let her get too far away. Holding on to her wrist, he kept her beside him. Gwyneth thought she would die of embarrassment, but she had to speak her mind.

  “What is happening between us…I cannot deny my attraction to you. I cannot deny how I have felt toward you for most of my life. But this physical… whatever ‘tis…is happening too fast. I am confused by it, terrified by it, and I do not think ‘tis wise for us to encourage it…or to let it control us.”

  A knot rose in her throat, choking off her words. She looked away, unable to withstand the intensity of his gaze. The cntradiction between how she was behaving and what she was saying now was mystifying and confusing. She didn’t want to think how deceitful he must imagine her to be. She wondered if he thought she was lying now.

  “Explain to me why you were eloping with this man.”

  She hadn’t expected the question. Still flustered over what had almost happened between them, she looked away. There were no coherent thoughts in her head. She could not chance explaining everything to him, not at a moment like this when chaos ruled her.

  “You are not with child. He has not taken any liberties with you. What hold does he have over you?” he asked impatiently. His face suddenly changed. “Is it possible that you were running away because you love him?”

  Gwyneth stared at his large hand still encircling her wrist. “Could we please not talk about this now?”

  “Then when can we talk about it?”

  Never, she thought. Or at least not until the deed was done and she was married to Sir Allan Ardmore.

  “I am not going to let this go, Gwyneth. If you really believe eloping with a potential fortune-hunter is the right course, then why not explain it to me? You cannot tell me you love him.”

  It was impossible to ignore the temper still icing his tone. “I shall explain it to you…but not now. Not after what…what we almost did. I need time to think, to shape the reasons in my mind so that you can understand them. ‘Tis much easier just to do things than to try to explain them.”

  “Explain later if you must. But I need one word for an answer. Do you love him?”

  She wished she could lie. “No.”

  David stared at her for several moments, then released her wrist. They rode along quietly for a while, each gathering their thoughts. Gwyneth did not look at him, but she could feel his gaze on her.

  After a while the silence became vexing, and she found herself searching for a way to distract David. She did not want to talk about Ardmore. At the same time, she knew how quickly the spark between them ignited. They were sitting too close to each other. She glanced around and saw her notebook lying face down on the seat opposite them.

  “You said that I have not read you what I am writing. Would you like me to read some of it to you now?”

  She waited anxiously and tried to not wither beneath his glare. He took his time. He made sure she suffered as long as possible. Finally, he reached over and picked up the notebook. “Can I take this as meaning that you’ve decided to like me again?”

  Gwyneth almost let out a sigh of relief. Looking up into his face, she was relieved to see him piecing together a smile. “I believe you already know the answer to that.”

  She took her book and quickly opened it to the last page, to what she’d been working on today.

  “I shall only read you this page, which opens in the middle of a story about a missing ship and crew. Here, the old father of the missing captain arrives at a tavern and meets an ancient mariner who may have some information.” Gwyneth tried to look over the page quickly to make sure it was pr to read. The havoc inside of her was slowly receding. They had come so close.

  David snatched the notebook out of her hand again. “You’ve explained it enough. I should like to read it myself.”

  She reached for her work, careful not to lean over him for fear of getting back to where they’d started. “But ‘twould be much better if I—”

  “I think ‘tis in your best interest for me to keep my hands occupied right now.”

  He was right. Gwyneth quickly withdrew and edged away from him as David focused on the written page.

  “I have not had a chance to read it over,
” she said as a way of excusing any fault he found with her work.

  “Then I shall read it aloud.” His gaze dropped from her face to the page.

  “The vengeance of heaven shall surely overtake the wicked. The blood of the murdered will rise in judgment against the murderer.”

  The old sailor took the visitor by the hand and led him to the window. He pointed to the ship lying in the harbor directly opposite the house and continued in a low whisper.

  “See ye that old, black, hell-smoked hulk? Well, there has been a deed done aboard that cursed vessel, during this last voyage, that was enough to have sunk her to the lowest depths of perdition. ‘Tis a marvel beyond all comprehension that, since the sea has not engulfed us, the ground has not opened up and swallowed us since we come ashore!” His voice sank even lower. “Oh, ‘twas a foul deed! We did it with hatchets. We struck them down, one after the other, like bullocks. We clove their skulls, bespattering our bulwarks with their brains, and drenching our decks with their--”

  David looked up at her. “With their…?”

  “With their blood.” She looked up at him mischievously. “I shall tell you another secret. Do you know who they were that we butchered with our hatchets?”

  David nodded. “Tell me.”

  “’Twas…” She leaned toward him in the seat, squinting one eye like an old seadog. “’Twas Captain Pennington. The same Captain Pennington of Baronsford. The very man who has been a thorn in my side from the moment I ran into him in London.” She took the notebook out of his hand and closed it with a snap. “I had no choice. I had to teach him a lesson.”

  His laughter filled the small space of the carriage.

  David’s reaction to her work pleased Gwyneth greatly. She had already established a growing audience for her work out there—according to a very happy publisher—but she had no personal connection with the people who were reading her tales. No one that she could hear laugh at the humorous moments. No one whom she could see lean forward expectantly…as someone reading aloud paused to draw a breath.

  She received no letters from admiring readers. No one knew the identity of the anonymous writer of the tales printed by Mr. Ruddiman.

  One person knew, Gwyneth quickly reminded herself. She moved across the seat again. The blackmail notes had started arriving at Greenbrae Hall this past spring. She’d received three of them so far. The villain knew her identity, knew where she lived, knew who was her guardian, knew how much she was worth, and—worst of all—seemed to know the damage the truth would mean to her life.

  The blackguard’s demand for keeping quiet was a fortune, and he was asking for money that she did not have. But even if she had already come into her inheritance and could part with such a large sum, she would not do it. She knew that tomorrow there could be some other rogue making the same claim on her…and another the day after that.

  The only answer to her problems lay in becoming invulnerable to such charges. That kind of protection came only with marriage to a man who was unaffected by scandal. She needed someone who would benefit by their union as much as Gwyneth. Someone financially in need—but with few expectations otherwise from a wife. She needed a man who would be satisfied to think of their union as a business arrangement in which he would be allowed to pursue his own interests and she hers.

  These were some of the reasons why Sir Allan was perfect for her. By the provisions of her uncle’s will, once she was married Gwyneth would inherit what was coming to her. At the same time, the will stipulated that she could lose her entire fortune if any scandal touched her while she was still unmarried. To be sure, Charles Douglas, the earl of Cavers, had his own reasons to be doing things—including making her an heiress—but Gwyneth had wondered more than once what lay behind his decisions. Nonetheless, that was the situation in which she now found herself.

  “When you were younger, your cleverness in weaving together stories and in making these characters seem so real always impressed me.” David smiled at her. “’Tis almost impossible to imagine, but you have become even better at it over the years.” He extended his hand toward her. “More! You must allow me to read more.”

  Gwyneth drew the book protectively to one side. “Very sorry…but you, sir, are dead. I killed you in my story. You have no need to know any more.”

  A look of challenge lit up his eyes, and she feared he would force the notebook out of her hand.

  “Honestly, there is no more,” she explained quickly. “That is as much of the story as I can show you. The rest of what I wrote today consists merely of scribbled notes to myself.”

  “What about the pages leading up to this?”

  “They are not ready to be seen. But I promise to let you finish reading it once I am done.”

  His arms crossed over his chest. After a moment of consideration, he nodded, apparently satisfied, but his handsome blue eyes remained focused on her face. Gwyneth felt every inch of her skin tingle from the brush of his gaze. She pretended to not be affected by it and turned her attention out the window of the carriage.

  “You have other tales in that portfolio, too, if I am not mistaken.”

  She couldn’t read them to him…not any of them straight through, anyway. She gave a half-hearted nod in answer.

  “And you have other books and many mor tales written in them, is that not true?”

  Gwyneth looked back at David. For few seconds her heart raced in her chest. With the prospect of telling him the truth, a thrill swept through her. To share with someone—with David—the story of her success would be a dream come true. In slightly over a year, she had sold eight of her tales. And due to popularity of them, Mr. Ruddiman was eager to buy more. She just had to write them.

  “I have known other women who were fond of keeping diaries and such things, and letter writing is an art to some, of course. You, however, weave volumes of tall tales.” He shook his head. “That is quite different.”

  As she was growing up, Gwyneth had never thought of her writing as having anything to do with conformity. It had nothing to do with anyone else. Even though she had been teased somewhat for her love of making up tales, stopping was never a consideration.

  “You know that this is something I have always done. Writing down the stories that form in my mind is part of who I am.”

  “I understood that when you were young and parentless. Even then, I recall thinking that you sometimes had a fantasy world that you escaped to—a secret garden. I knew it must have been difficult to come and live with an aunt and an uncle that you did not know.” He stretched his legs before him, but his eyes were fixed intently on her face. “I thought ‘twas wonderful that in your mind you could substitute the kindness of a fairy for the touch of a mother and conjure a heroic king for the father who you had lost. I remember, even then, thinking that making up stories was a good thing for you.”

  “But you no longer think that?” Gwyneth said a bit defensively.

  David shrugged. “It all depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what you allow to go undone now during those hours…no, days…that you lose yourself to the fantasies you are creating.”

  “I have no commitments that are left unfulfilled. Augusta happens to be my only relative living, and she rarely needs or desires my company. If I do not busy myself with socializing, no one is harmed by that. Besides, I have never been very good at sitting around gossiping with other women about people or about the latest fashions. So, whatever time I spend pursuing this thing I enjoy deprives no one of my company.”

  “I disagree. You are now an adult, Gwyneth. Rather than balking at society, you should consider embracing it. You need friends, female companions, and even I know that not all the young women out there are as shallow as you make them out to be. By the way, did you involve yourself at all in what London had to offer this season?”

  She rolled her eyes and looked out the carriage window.

  “Did you?”

  “Of course…once or twice. I
went to the theater several times. I saw Garrick in King Lear. I went to the opera once and to a reception at…well, it doesn’t matter.”

  “The men must have been falling over each other to dance with you.”

  “If you must know, the young men of the ton are worse than the young women.”

  “So in the months you were in London, you really allowed yourself very little opportunity to meet others. Which means that you spent too little time outside of your shell. You didn’t give anyone a chance to get close…except one fortune-hunting fraud.”

  David reached out and tugged on one of her curls, drawing her gaze back to him. The gesture reminded her of the way he used to treat her—like a younger sister or an innocent young friend, someone to whom he could give brotherly advice. She resented it.

  “Gwyneth, you are a very attractive young woman, in addition to being an heiress with a good name. ‘Tis time you moved beyond this whimsical world of yours. Instead of the nonsense you spend your time on, you should be thinking of the hard and fast realities of your future.”

  Bristling at his words, she made no attempt to mask her anger. “And what makes you believe that I do not think of such things?”

  “Eloping, for one.” He leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees. His expression showed his irritation, as well. “If you were paying attention to the present instead of wandering around lost in the romantic, adventurous worlds of your Highlanders and pirates and such, then you might have a chance of behaving like any other sensible young woman. You certainly wouldn’t let some penniless rogue fool you. Do you not see the scandal you will be subjecting yourself to? And what ‘twill cost you?”