Devil's Embrace by Catherine Coulter
She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, and jerked open the sash. She felt Edward’s hands pulling the soft material from her body. She heard his sharp intake of breath.
“God, you are so beautiful.”
“You have already seen me unclothed. Do you not remember, Edward?”
“Yes,” he said slowly, easing himself down beside her. “But I tried to forget, Cass.” Had he continued to think of her as he had those long months ago, he thought, he would have gone mad. He looked at her breasts and swallowed convulsively. Just the thought of the Earl of Clare touching her, forcing her, made his belly cramp.
He looked down at her, his eyes wintry. He felt her fingers tentatively touch his shoulders, and slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers.
Although she was not a virgin, he knew he should treat her as gently as he had that long ago afternoon in the cave. He pressed his mouth softly against hers, until he felt her part her lips to him. As his hands stroked over her, he thought of the man who had taken her innocence, the man who had caressed her body as he was now doing. Although he did not wish it, he thought again of the months of pain, the nights of empty bitterness, at the cruelty of fate. He felt consumed again by the wrenching loneliness. She had left him, had made life itself seem meaningless to him. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and rolled on top of her, feeling the soft giving of her beneath him.
Cassie froze, numbed with confusion. Whenever she had thought of this moment with Edward, she had remembered only his tenderness, his gentleness. She felt her body tense in protest. You love me, she wanted to tell him. Why are you doing this to me? He released her mouth and his lips closed over her breast. She heard his breathing, ragged and deep, and knew that he wanted her, wanted her so badly that what she felt no longer mattered to him. She prayed silently to feel something, but an instant of desire. She tangled her fingers in his curling chestnut hair, and forced her hands to stroke down his back.
“Oh God, Cass.” He reared over her and pushed her thighs apart. She felt herself stiffen as his member touched her. But I am not ready for you, she wanted to yell at him. She swallowed a cry in her throat as he thrust into her unwilling flesh.
Cassie moaned softly, for his every movement hurt her. But her muted cry broke Edward’s control. He drove into her wildly until his body tensed uncontrollably above her. He felt as if he were breaking apart, each convulsive spasm pulling him farther out of himself, away from all reason. Jagged groans tore from his mouth. Suddenly there was a great easing within him and he fell forward, resting his cheek next to her face on the pillow.
His release erased the violent emotion that had consumed him. He felt Cassie lying motionless beneath him.
“I am sorry, Edward.”
He raised his head at her soft, sad words and saw tears swimming in her eyes. He drew a deep breath. Damn. He felt the perfect bounder. After all that had happened to her, he had done little else than force her himself. But she had accepted him, she had stroked him and wrapped her legs about his hips to open herself more fully to receive him. The earl’s darkly handsome face rose in his mind’s eye and Edward saw him rearing over her, parting her thighs, burying himself in her woman’s body. He shook himself, blotting the image from his mind.
“It is I who am sorry, Cassie. Next time it will be better, you will see.”
But I don’t want there to be a next time.
“It will be, Edward,” she whispered. He pulled himself out of her and stretched his full length beside her.
He tried to think of comforting words to say, but somehow the violent emotion he had felt and his guilt at what he had done emptied his mind. Both of them needed time. He said only, “It’s been a long day, Cass. You need sleep now.”
She settled her cheek against his shoulder. Sleep eluded her for some time, even after Edward’s breathing evened. What was wrong with her? Though she did not wish to, she remembered how passion leaped in her when the earl but touched her. And once, long ago, she had desired Edward. What had changed? Perhaps Edward was right. Perhaps it was her own tension, perhaps it was his newness to her, and hers to him. But her body tensed in protest at her thoughts. She sighed and forced all thought from her mind.
* * *
Cassie stared down at the fluffy scrambled eggs and felt her stomach tighten.
“Will there be anything else you require, my lady?”
“No, Mrs. Beatty. The breakfast is fine, thank you.”
“I’ll send Will up later for the dishes, my lady.”
Cassie nodded and watched Mrs. Beatty dip her a credible curtsy.
“Captain Lord Delford sounds mighty happy that you’ve joined him.”
“It would seem so.” The sound of Edward’s whistling came loudly through the closed bedchamber door.
After Mrs. Beatty had left, Cassie pushed away the heaping plate of food and sipped at her coffee. She knew that she must tell him now. She would have told him last night, but somehow the words simply would not say themselves. So much had happened and so much was new to both of them. She cursed herself for a coward.
If she thought that Edward would not notice her lack of appetite, she was mistaken.
“If I am to give you a tour of New York, Cass, you must eat something.”
“I have boundless energy, Edward, you know that. It is just that I am not particularly hungry this morning.”
“I don’t want a skinny wife, Cass.”
She felt herself flush under his warm scrutiny.
Edward was very careful where he guided Cassie. There were areas of New York that were unsavory, others that reeked of human misery, no less than parts of London. The day was cooler than Edward had expected, and there was a light breeze blowing from the bay past the upper end of Broad Street.
“What an odd jumble of buildings.”
“Yes, a mixture of old and new. The fire was strangely fickle. See the gabled house there on your left? It was built in 1698 by a Dutchman and is now occupied by James Bryson and Moses Smith. The spire to the left of the old Federal Hall is St. Paul’s Chapel, on Broadway. We’ll walk down Wall Street, and I’ll show you what’s left of Trinity Church. Unfortunately, the wooden spire burned in the fire and collapsed into the interior.”
They reached the foot of Broadway and Edward directed her to Bowling Green. “And there, Cass, was where a statue of George III used to stand. The rebels pulled it down and melted it for bullets and guns.”
“But everyone seems sympathetic to England, Edward. Where are all the rebels?”
“The rebels are in the minority. Here in New York, they were a vocal, vicious bunch. Before General Howe took New York, a group that called themselves the Liberty Boys were responsible for much destruction, particularly of Tory homes and businesses. Many families loyal to England fled New York, and returned when we took the city. This rebellion is nothing more than a series of ragtag skirmishes scattered about this huge land.” Edward shrugged. “What will come of this is anybody’s guess.”
Cassie looked thoughtful for a moment. “As you said, Edward, this is a vast land. How can England, thousands of miles away, hope to control its destiny?”
“You are beginning to sound like Jen—, like Tory friends of mine.” He looked awkwardly away.
“Sometimes I think,” Cassie continued, gazing at him intently, “that everyone should simply leave everyone else alone. War seems such a waste.”
“True. But if what you suggested should happen, what would become of all the loyalists? I assure you that their fate would not be enviable.”
“There never seems to be a simple solution to anything, does there?”
“No, there does not.” Like Cassie, Edward was thinking about his own life. No, there was never a simple solution to anything.
“There is a young lady who appears to know you, Edward.”
Edward pulled himself from his thoughts and looked up. Jenny stood not fifteen feet from them, holding herself so rigidly that she seemed carved in stone.
Jenny wanted nothing but to turn on her heels and walk away. But she could not. She stood in miserable silence as Edward, and the undeniably beautiful girl at his side, walked toward her. The young woman could not be one of Madam Harper’s delectable girls, solely for the use of the officers. She was undeniably a lady. She felt a sickening lurch in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, Jenny knew. The elegant girl with her glossy golden hair was Cassandra. A hopeless no sounded in her mind, for she knew she was Edward’s lost fiancée, supposedly drowned, here, in New York, returned to him.
Jenny drew herself up, calling upon her deep steely pride. To her amazement, her tongue moved in her mouth and she heard herself say quite calmly, “Good morning, Captain Lord Delford.”
“Jenny—Miss Lacy, I would like you to meet Cassandra Brougham. Cass, Miss Lacy.”
Cassie nodded pleasantly toward the young woman, wondering silently at the sudden tension in Edward’s voice. “A pleasure, Miss Lacy.”
Even her voice is beautiful, Jenny thought, and she forced herself to say something acceptable. “You have just arrived?”
“Yes, yesterday. Edward is showing me your city.”
Jenny suddenly felt that she would retch. The cobblestone pavement seemed to rise, and she weaved where she stood.
“Jenny, are you all right?”
Again, there was a strain in Edward’s voice. Cassie looked more closely at the young woman. She was magnificently tall, and carried herself gracefully, her figure full and deep-bosomed. Thick masses of auburn hair were piled atop her head, and soft ringlets framed a face of classic features. Her wide green eyes were fastened upon Edward’s face.
“Yes, I am fine. It is the death smell; with the breeze from the south, it makes me faint.”
Edward reached his hand toward her, then dropped it helplessly again to his side. He held himself rigid. “Can we see you home, Jenny?”
Cassie felt as though she had just stepped into a scene in a play fraught with unspoken passion, a scene in which she was an unwitting player.
“No, thank you, Edward. I assure you that I am quite all right now. Miss Brougham.” She nodded briskly, picked up her green velvet skirt, and hurried across the street, her head held high.
“Who is Miss Lacy, Edward?” Cassie inquired, careful to keep her voice indifferent.
Edward replied with taut lightness, “As I told you, Jenny and her father, Benjamin Lacy, are good friends of mine. Her father is a writer and partner of Ambrose Searle who publishes the New York Mercury, a staunch Tory newspaper. Jenny did not look well,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“Perhaps you should insist upon seeing her home, Edward. Perhaps you should speak with her.”
He was silent for many moments. “No, she will be fine,” he said firmly.
Cassie was not blind or deaf. Jennifer Lacy was clearly in love with Edward. She saw the rigid set of his shoulders, and forebore to question him further. Since she had not told him everything, it would be unfair of her to demand more of him.
She asked easily, to relieve him of any embarrassment, “What is the smell she spoke about?”
“It is the stench from the prisons. All over New York, prisoners of war are kept in appalling conditions—in churches and windowless sugarhouses that are stifling in summer and frigid in winter. I have been told that many of them lie dead for days with their comrades before they are removed.”
“But that is horrible!”
“The rebel prisoners kept aboard the British prison ship, Jersey, docked in Wallabout Bay, are no better off. They are locked below-deck in conditions that would kill rats, much less men.” He sighed.
“Is there nothing you can do, Edward?”
“No. Since the fire, there are not sufficient buildings to hold all the prisoners of war. They must be confined someplace; were they released, they would only return to the rebel army to fight us again one day. It is only their plight that angers me. Men, regardless of which side they fight on, are still men and not animals. General Howe will not discuss the matter.”
Cassie sniffed the air as they continued their walk. If there was a smell, her nose did not, today, detect it. Her thoughts kept returning to Miss Lacy. There had been such pain in the girl’s vivid green eyes.
When they had returned to the inn, Edward took Cassie’s hand for a moment and squeezed it. “I must seek out a parson, Cass. Please do not walk out alone. I would fear for your safety.”
“Edward, I must speak to you.”
Because he was abstracted, he did not hear the desperation in her voice. “When I return. I will not be long, Cassie.” He planted a chaste kiss on her cheek and left her.
She looked after his retreating figure helplessly. Tonight, then, she would have to tell him. If he changed his mind, he could always tell the parson that it had been a mistake.
Edward returned bearing the tale of having found a Mr. John Morrison, a hook-nosed Presbyterian parson, who, as best Edward could determine, was as discreet as they could wish.
“He will wed us whenever you wish, Cass. I think you will like him despite his monstrous nose. I gave him few details, but I fancy that he is musing about all sorts of marvelous possibilities.”
Whenever I wish. “Soon, I suppose, Edward.”
“There is a ship sailing for England next week. Unfortunately, I do not think I can be relieved of my responsibilities so quickly. I will speak with General Howe tomorrow. Perhaps next month we can return. Would you like to write to Eliott? At least he can be informed that we are to be married. I fancy your homecoming will be as impressive as any prepared for the king.” He paused a moment, eyeing her closely. “You must decide what is to be done about Becky Petersham. I cannot imagine that you would want her there when we return.”
“You are right, Edward. I do not think I could bear to see her again.”
He said abruptly, “Was the earl cruel to you, Cassie?”
A knot formed in her throat, and for several moments she was unable to speak. “No, Edward, he was not.”
His eyes encouraged her to continue, but she turned away. She knew that Edward wanted her to tell all that had happened to her, but he was far too much the gentleman to press her. And I am far too much the coward.
They ate dinner downstairs in the small private dining room, their host, Mr. Beatty, in constant attendance. Cassie imagined, after consuming a hearty meal of roast lamb, boiled potatoes, crisp green beans, and a thick rice pudding, that Mrs. Beatty had spent her entire day in the inn’s kitchen.
“That was a delicious meal, Mr. Beatty,” she said as their host made haste to fill her wine glass. He seemed disinclined to leave, and at a wink from Edward, Cassie said, “Won’t you please join us, Mr. Beatty?”
“Don’t mind if I do, milady,” he said, and pulled out a chair at their table. Cassie blinked, surprised that an innkeeper would want to share his guests’ company. But Edward seemed amused.
“I tell you, my lord,” Mr. Beatty said, sitting back in the high-backed chair and swirling the wine about in his glass, “this fellow, Paine, continues to have tremendous influence over the Americans. Did you know that damned pamphlet of his—begging your pardon, milady—has sold thousands of copies?”
It seemed to Cassie that she had stepped into the middle of a conversation whose subject was, unfortunately, as alien to her as this raw, unpainted city. She fastened a fascinated eye upon Mr. Beatty.
“Yes, sir,” Edward replied easily, “only last week, as I recall, you were not damning it.”
“I gave you a copy of Common Sense, my lord. I trust you have read it as you promised you would.”
“I have read part of it, sir. It is hardly common, I believe. As to the sense of it, Paine has perfected, I grant you, the grandiose style.”
“ ‘O! receive the fugitive, and prepare in time an asylum for mankind!”’ Mr. Beatty rubb
“I would hardly term England squalid,” Cassie said, her patriotism ruffled.
“Nor would I, sir,” Edward said. “But you are right to say that life here is very different, so unstructured. It seems to me that England’s hand simply cannot encompass so many beliefs from so many nations.”
“At least New York is now safe once again in English hands,” Cassie said.
“Yes,” Mr. Beatty continued, “New York is once again safe, thanks to men like yourself, my lord, and your General Howe.”
“General Howe has upon occasion spoken of Paine,” Edward said, turning his eyes from Cassie back to Mr. Beatty. “It is his opinion, of course, that Paine’s firebrand words will lead the rebels only more quickly toward their destruction.”
Mr. Beatty said, “Aye, that’s true enough. ‘Ye that dare oppose not only the tyranny but the tyrant, stand forth!’ Yes, quite a way with words the man has.”
As Cassie sat blinking at such an appreciation of eloquence from an innkeeper, Mr. Beatty rose from his chair and patted Edward’s arm. “I’ll leave you be now, my lord. I fancy you and your lady wife have much to talk about.”
“Yes, sir, I believe that we do,” Edward said, looking toward Cassie. Mr. Beatty bowed deeply to Cassie. He stopped at the door, his sausage fingers upon the knob. “Do you know that before he started writing, Tom Paine did not seem to be able to do anything but fail? damned fellow—begging your pardon, milady—bungled being a sailor, a grocer, a tobacconist, and a tax collector. His wife even cut him loose.” Sudden humor lit Mr. Beatty’s round face, and he shook his head. “You’ll not believe it, but he could not even make a living as a corsetmaker! The—begging your pardon, milady.”
Cassie clapped her hand over her mouth, but still her laughter bubbled out.
“Do not poke fun at the locals, Cass,” Edward said, his voice mock-reproving. “You’ll discover that every New Yorker holds staunch views, though it seems to me that Mr. Beatty has of late begun to show a rebel chink in his Tory armor.”