Varden's Lady Page 19

  "And a bath, please,” Mallory panted as she flopped down to sit on the edge of his bed.

  Mildly surprised, Varden relayed the request. Claire had never had much use for bathing. To her, it was a trial to be endured when perfume failed. As he watched, Mallory wiped the sweat from her face and neck with the hem of his now ruined silk shirt. That was not like Claire, either. His eyes narrowed as he studied her, this strange woman who would rather her feet be bare than suffer through the pains of an ill-fitting pair of shoes. Who spent her days in simple nightgowns rather than corsets and gowns. Who spent her mornings jogging through the bailey wearing shabbily made pantaloons and a plain, gentleman's shirt. And what in the world had she done to her hair?

  She plucked at the front of the shirt and fanned it rapidly in and out. The silk fell in around her breasts and clung damply to her curves.

  Everything about her seemed so different, so changed. Varden didn't realize he'd said that aloud until she looked at him in surprise.

  "Is that good or bad?” she asked.

  "I'm not sure.” Varden caught a wisp of an auburn curl that was tickling her ear and twisted it around his finger. “Good, I think. At least, much of it is, when you're not setting my Field on fire."

  "Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to think I was getting worse."

  Varden smiled lopsidedly. Without thinking, he cupped her chin to bring her lips to his. For so light a touch, the potency of the charge that shot through him was as surprising as his sudden need for more. He kissed her again, hard, full of passion, full of need, with all the fierceness of a desire held too long in check.

  When he finally broke away, she stared dazedly at his mouth. When the tip of her tongue flicked out to taste him on her lips, nothing seemed more natural for him than to press forward, part her lips with his tongue, and taste her in return.

  Intoxicating.

  He didn't realize that he was pressing her back until suddenly the mattress was beneath them and Varden covered her. His hips rocked into the cradle of her thighs with an intimacy belonging only to lovers.

  He touched all of her, his hands tracing the softness of her face to her throat, his palms rasping over her smooth skin. He marveled when she arched into him, pressing her breasts into his palms, the peaked tips raising the white silk of her shirt. Catching the hem of the unwanted barrier, he pulled it over her head and tossed it impatiently away.

  Again his calloused hands rasped over her skin. He paused, frowning, until she lay her hand to the side of his face.

  "It's all right,” Mallory said. “I like it when you touch me."

  Varden bent to kiss her again, more gently this time as his hands stroked over her ribs, down her stomach to the band of her shorts and back up again. Feather light, he caressed the smooth undersides of each breast with the backs of his fingers. In light, endless circles, he traced each creamy globe, spiraling ever inward until he reached the center. He plucked the nipple, gently tweaked it, and smiled when she moaned and put her arms around him.

  "What do you want?” Varden asked, his voice husky with mounting desire.

  When Mallory only shook her head, Varden delved past the belt and down between her thighs. He pressed into her. Even through the thin fabric of the shorts, he could feel how hot and moist she was. Ready for him.

  His body surged. Every aspect of him was hard and throbbing. When she eagerly curled a leg around his hip, he nearly lost control entirely.

  "Say it,” he coaxed as her hips moved instinctively against his hand. “What do you want, ma petite folle?"

  "Oh, Varden!” Eyes squeezed tightly shut, she trembled under the tender ministrations of his hand.

  "Mon bise,” he murmured as he took the lobe of her ear between his teeth. She shivered as the heat of his breath brushed her nape. First he nibbled, then drew it into his hot mouth and suckled it. “Say it."

  "You,” Mallory breathed. “Please, Varden, I want you."

  The power of those words made the agony of his restraint worth every torturous second. He found the loop of her belt and quickly had the knot undone. The shorts ended up on the floor with the shirt.

  Varden stood up.

  "Don't leave me!” Mallory reached for him. “What have I done now?"

  The disappointment on her face was enough to make him laugh aloud. “No need to look so stricken. I have no intention of leaving you."

  He shed his robe. Soft as velvet, hard as steel, his manhood strained skyward. He stroked her soft belly; bent to kiss her thigh. “Say it again."

  There were no hesitations now.

  "I want you.” Mallory opened her arms to welcome him, and Varden went into them.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twelve

  He held himself stiffly off her, braced up on shaking arms. It had never been like that. The honesty of her reactions, the helpless way she had clung to him—still clung to him—as though afraid to let go. Even when they were first married and it was simpler to pretend to return his love, Claire had never truly done more than endure him. After Caleb, when she could no longer stand to touch him, he had grown so weary of pretending that things were perfect between them. And now, he wasn't sure exactly how or why things had changed, but he was grateful. For the sake of their son, and his own sanity, he was grateful.

  Varden lowered himself to kiss her once more, tender, gentle, marveling that she would respond so sweetly, combing her fingers through his hair, sighing her enjoyment into his mouth. He held her as close as he could, her musky woman's scent filling his senses as he stroked her shoulder and brushed his lips over her smooth skin. He could not help it; he confessed to her, “I love you. Despite all that has happened, Claire, I still love you. You are a fire under my skin."

  Mallory stiffened beneath him. She twisted out of his arms to look at him, hurt. “What did you say?"

  "I love you."

  "Not that part, the other one!” Mallory stared at him accusingly. Her voice rose. “You just called me by her name!"

  He rolled onto his side, fondling her breast. “What does it matter?"

  "What—what does it—Oh!” Mallory shoved him off her and scrambled from the bed.

  Varden sat up. “Where are you going?"

  She struggled into her shorts. “It's not as if I'm asking you to give me the moon!"

  He rolled his eyes. “All right, fine. I apologize. I love you, Mallory."

  Her back stiffened. “Don't bother."

  "I said I was sorry, now come back to bed."

  Mallory rounded on him. “You don't even know what you're apologizing for! This isn't funny, Varden! What's it going to take for you to see me for who I am?"

  "I don't want to argue with you today. Come back to bed, mon âme,” he coaxed, holding out his hand, but Mallory would have none of it.

  Her hands shook as she grabbed her shirt from the floor. “I thought I could do it. I thought I could just move in where she left off and be your wife. But I'm not your wife, because she still is! How do I fight that? How do I make you love me?"

  "I do love you,” Varden protested.

  "You love her!"

  "You are her!"

  Mallory recoiled as sharply as if he'd struck her. “Don't ever say that to me again! Oh my God, I feel like I'm having an affair with a married man. Like a good, dutiful mistress, I suppose I'll be waiting forever for you to get divorced so you can marry me instead!"

  "I give up.” Varden threw up his hands. “I am not having this conversation. You are already my wife!"

  "This body may have walked down the aisle with you, but I didn't!"

  "What aisle?” Exasperated, his voice had begun to rise. Varden forced himself to calm. It would do no good to yell at her. “Come back to bed. Let us discuss this like two rational adults."

  "I'll never get back into that bed with you unless you know who you're sharing it with!” Mallory stalked back to her room. Grabbing the door, she turned back to him. “And I'll give you a hint: it's no
t your wife!"

  Then she slammed it.

  Varden heard her burst into tears and the sound of Grete's voice. He punched his pillow and rolled onto his side, his back to the door. Grumbling under his breath, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But he kept thinking of a certain redheaded duchess, with green eyes and a winning smile, jogging barefoot around the courtyard. Despite reason and all logic, there was something very different about her.

  Not enough to make him believe her ludicrous ‘Mallory’ story. Certainly not enough for that.

  But there was ... something.

  * * * *

  "How long is she going to stay mad at you?” Doctor Wilcox asked.

  Varden shrugged. “Who knows, but that's not the argument I want your opinion on."

  They stood side by side at the opposite end of the nursery from where Mallory and Nanna were bathing Devin. Varden wished he could be closer. He wanted to be the one to hold the cooing, kicking baby in the giant bathing tub while Mallory gently washed and tickled him. Unfortunately, if Varden got any closer than the doorway, she fixed him with that cold stare of hers until he backed away again.

  Hands clasped tightly behind his back, the doctor glared at the stark stone wall. “You are as insane as she is."

  "So they keep telling me. Just look at her and keep an open mind.” He was careful to keep his tone low enough for Mallory, who occasionally glared back at him over her shoulder, not to overhear. “She is acting differently, isn't she?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "I mean, does she act like the same woman we had to lock up to keep from committing suicide? Don't look at me, look at her. She's been fighting mad for two days, but does she act like a fighting mad Claire?"

  "For once I agree with your stepmother,” Wilcox snapped. “This is foolishness! What are you really asking me? Is the soul of a futuristic dead woman inside Claire's body? Do you expect for me to actually say yes to that?"

  "You'll forgive me if I find the fantasy appealing,” Varden said.

  "Beg your forgiveness from the Church. They will make a bigger issue out of it than I. Men have been imprisoned and even executed for saying less.” Wilcox caught a nasty look from Mallory and lowered his voice. “I hear she was running through the castle in pants this morning."

  "They were pantaloons, not pants."

  "The Church won't make that distinction, either,” Doctor Wilcox said. “And neither should you."

  "If her mental state is not enough to protect her, then my money and position will. It's not the Church that concerns me."

  "Well, it should."

  "Just look at what she does.” Varden gestured at her. “In all the years that you've known her, has she ever acted this way? I don't care what she wants to call herself. Frankly, I could accept ‘Mallory’ over Claire, and cheerfully, if it could be assured that Claire would not re-surface a year or two from now and rip everything apart again."

  "There is no Mallory,” Wilcox insisted. “The woman before you is the same woman she has always been. Claire. Insane, definitely more pleasant to be around, but your wife just the same!"

  "Lower your voice!” Even as Varden hastened to quiet the sour doctor, Mallory paused in the act of lifting Devin from the tub and glared at them both. Varden smiled and inclined his head in a kind of bow; Wilcox just stared at the floor.

  Knowing he lacked his mother's attention, Devin began to fuss, and Mallory handed him into the towel Nanna held up. When the governess handed him back to her, Mallory began to rock him and sing. “Here she comes just a-walkin’ down the street, singin’ ‘Do-wah ditty-ditty dum ditty-doo.’”

  Varden turned back to Wilcox, gesturing at her as he did so. “And what about all these strange little songs. What was that other one? That tune about the special sauce and beef patties?"

  "I need to get drunk,” Wilcox said.

  "Where does she come up with them?” Varden lowered his voice. “And did you know she threw all her gowns away? There are servants scrubbing the floors with the finest blue chiffon rags this side of Londontown."

  "Claire lives for new clothes. That doesn't prove a thing."

  "True, and she is finally going to get some. A grand total of three brand-new dresses sewn for her by a seamstress in Wooler. I saw the material for one of them. I don't know whether to laugh or interfere. Grete will be better dressed than she."

  The doctor's bushy eyebrows came together. “I didn't know Wooler had a seamstress."

  "It doesn't, that's my point. Nanna's daughter knows how to put a needle to cloth. Her husband raises sheep and she is renowned for making prettily patterned blankets and shawls. Apparently, that makes her a qualified seamstress for ladies’ dresses. But she certainly is not equal to even the youngest apprentice in Madame Bell's dress shop.” Varden leaned toward him. “Robert, I want to know what happened in that room. You told me she refused to cooperate. That something went wrong."

  The doctor's face darkened. “Talk to the midwife."

  Varden scowled. “If you don't start answering my questions, you're going to find yourself in your own, private gaol cell very quickly. The coldest, dampest, most rat-infested one I can find. I may even forget you are there."

  A snorting laugh was the response he got. “You'll remember quick enough the next time there's an accident on the Field and someone lies bleeding to death.” But the bite was not as sharp in his tone. He glared from Varden to Mallory, then snorted and shook his head again. “I don't know what went wrong. But by the time I was summoned, she had already lost so much blood that it was all I could see of her. Bess was convinced she would not survive. I was only there to cut Devin from her body after she died. Personally, I thought we would lose them both. But that doesn't mean that there's another soul lurking somewhere under her skin! I don't believe it for a second! And if you repeat any of this, I'll deny it to my dying day!"

  "I'm not sure what to believe,” Varden said honestly. “I know how ridiculous this sounds, but I also know that the woman I see before me now is not the same woman I have called ‘wife’ these last seven years. Take away all the physical attributes and compare her with what she was two months ago. She moves differently. She even speaks differently. She is a completely different person."

  "I'll admit that she is not entirely the same.” A nervous twitch tugged at the corner of his mouth as Wilcox reluctantly said, “Something did happen, though, shortly after I arrived that night."

  Varden gave the old man his attention, though the explanation was a long time in coming.

  "She quit breathing,” Wilcox finally said. “She just fell back in bed and lay there, eyes dull and staring straight up without looking at anything. That last breath—it whooshed out of her. Her heart stopped. I thought she had died.” He grimaced, as if realizing that he would regret what he was about to admit. “I was about to cut into her when she started to breathe again. And not just breathe, she actually sat up and pushed. She was very weak by then. She had lost a lot of blood, but she acted as if nothing had happened. I think that was the point when she lost her sanity. Yes, that must have been when it happened."

  Varden watched as his wife dressed Devin in a long, white gown, one of Caleb's. “They say when a man has a brush with death, it can change him."

  "No one ever said it exchanges their soul for another's!"

  "True. But I would bet my entire estate that she honestly has no memory of who she used to be. Or perhaps the only way she feels she can make amends for the past is by ‘killing’ Claire, which would make ‘Mallory’ the model individual that she wishes she could become."

  "Or,” Wilcox said, “she's a madwoman who seems very rational."

  "You're right.” Varden sighed and rubbed his eyes. “This is all wishful thinking. Go get drunk, Doctor. And with my blessing."

  Wilcox lay a heavy hand on Varden's shoulders. “She may not be dangerous now, my boy, but it's inevitable that she will worsen. I understand your reluctance to have her committed in a public asylum,
but that is an eventuality that you must prepare for."

  "I like her better this way,” Varden muttered. How could he lock her away when what he wanted most was to hold her in his arms and pretend they were the only two beings in the known world?

  "So do I,” Wilcox grunted as he walked out the door. “So do I."

  * * * *

  Varden wasn't leaving.

  Though the baby had been asleep for almost half an hour, Mallory still sat beside his cradle with her hands folded in her lap, ready to go back to her room but with no way to leave gracefully. Why couldn't he just go away? Surely he wasn't going to stand there all day, propped against the wall with his arms folded across his chest and his right leg crossed over his left, looking the very picture of comfort, as if he fully intended to wait her out. And to make matters worse, every time she glared at him, he smiled at her. Smiled! The nerve! Mallory fumed. He'd probably follow her out into the hall and all the way back to her room.

  This chair really needed a cushion. The wood creaked as she shifted on the hard, flat seat but, after receiving two spankings in the same week, getting comfortable sitting anywhere was nearly impossible.

  When she shifted again, Nanna glanced at her over the top of her needlepoint and smiled knowingly.

  Mallory flushed. She was acting childishly and she knew it. But she wasn't about to let Varden gain the upper hand. She could sit here all night if she had to. She didn't know what it would prove, but a sore behind was nothing compared to the satisfaction of beating Varden at his own game.

  She shifted in the chair again, then rolled her eyes. Who was she kidding?

  She stood up. The day you start running is not the day to try to out-wait anyone. She walked past Varden on stiff and aching legs. “Don't you dare smile at me."

  "Of course not,” he said. He smiled as he followed her out of the nursery. “Are you going to avoid me all day?"

  "That was the plan.” Mallory quickened her pace, but his legs were longer and he kept up with her easily. “I'd like to stick with it."