The Master of Winterbourne Read online

  Henrietta stood in her petticoats among the laughing, teasing friends and found herself smiling with pure happiness. She had been dreading this ritual, but now she was caught up in the infectious joy of it.

  ‘Robe the bride!’ Alice and Letty removed the rest of her wedding garments, then slipped the new lawn nightshift over her head. Henrietta caught a glimpse of herself in the glass and gasped involuntarily.

  ‘Aunt, this is not seemly.’ The diaphanous fabric clung where it touched, a mere illusion of covering for her naked body. It pooled round her bare feet, slipped treacherously from her shoulders.

  ‘It is very seemly for a wedding night,’ Serena said daringly. ‘I'll vouch Sir Matthew would pronounce it so.’

  ‘Serena!’ There was a chorus of automatic disapproval from the married women present, but they laughed none the less.

  Alice was patting rosewater on to Henrietta's shoulders, letting the cool liquid trickle between her breasts, touching it to the fluttering pulse-points at her wrists and neck. She and Letty brushed out Henrietta's chestnut hair until it crackled before two of the youngest girls crowned her with a chaplet of white bud roses and silver ribbons.

  The giggling and laughter died away into an almost palpable silence as the women stood together regarding their handiwork.

  ‘Ahh…’ It was Lady Willoughby. ‘I declare, my sweet child, you are the most beautiful bride I ever laid eyes on.’

  Susan, tears standing in her eyes, dropped a kiss on Henrietta’s hair, but her soft words were drowned by a sudden clamour in the passageway outside.

  ‘Open up for the bridegroom!’ Lord Willoughby's stentorian tones shook the panelling.

  ‘To bed! To bed!’ The knot of women inside the bedchamber broke into a whirlpool of activity, sweeping back the sheets, plumping up the bolsters, installing Henrietta in the centre of the big bed.

  The banging on the door grew more insistent as the women smoothed the coverlet back into place. Letty arranged Henrietta's hair, fanning it over the pillows, and at the last moment, as Aunt Susan opened the door, Alice darted forward and tweaked the ribbon loose at the neck of the gown.

  Henrietta, her hands flying to her bosom, was overwhelmed as the chamber filled up with jostling, laughing men, Matthew calm and robed at their centre.

  ‘The posset! Bring in the posset!’ The aroma of hot spiced wine tinged the air, chasing away the delicate scent of rosewater. The two-handled loving-cup was splashed full and passed to Matthew by Lord Willoughby who exhorted him to drink deep. ‘Sweet and strong, that's what you need tonight, my boy.’

  In the second before she closed her eyes on a tide of embarrassment Henrietta saw Matthew's mouth twitch sardonically. He might not have been to a country wedding before, but he was certainly in no doubt as to the older man's meaning.

  ‘Thank you, my friends, for your good offices and no doubt excellent advice. I shall endeavour to follow all of it.’ Henrietta wondered if it was possible for the floor to open up and swallow her and the bed both. ‘Now, may I suggest you escort the ladies to the long gallery where you will find a light supper laid out?’

  There was loud laughter, and ribald suggestions, then the whole party surged out, leaving an echoing silence behind them.

  Cautiously Henrietta opened her eyes. For a moment she thought the big chamber was empty, then she saw Matthew leaning against the panels of the oak door, the key in his hand.

  The collar of his nightshirt was very white against the tobacco-brown velvet of the chamber robe tied loosely at the neck. His feet were bare on the oak boards and his green eyes were warm and steady on her face.

  For a long moment each regarded the other in silence, Henrietta's breathing so shallow that she could hear his rasping slightly in this throat, the only outward manifestation of his feelings.

  Across the courtyard music struck up again as the guests resumed their celebrations, but they could have been a million miles away from the two alone in the candle-lit room. Then Matthew began to walk across the emptiness towards her. At the foot of the bed he stopped, one hand on the hangings, and looked into her eyes. Henrietta gazed back, drowning in the intensity, afraid yet yearning for what was to come, the touch of his hands, the touch of his lips…

  ‘You are beautiful, Henrietta. Your loveliness threatens to unman me.’

  Henrietta trembled, her fingers tightening on the ribbon at her neck. She wanted him to come to her so badly, yet she could not find the words to tell him so. Her tongue did not yet know the phrases.

  He must have mistaken her trembling for apprehension. His face softened and he came to kneel beside the bed, his hand covering hers at her breast.

  Henrietta waited breathless for his kiss, but instead he threaded his fingers into hers, pulling her hand gently to make her rise. ‘Come, wife, there is something I want to show you.’

  Henrietta allowed herself to be led to the south window, the hems of their robes whispering across the bare boards. Matthew threw back the hangings and sat in the window seat, pulled her down to sit in front of him on the wide tapestry cushion, his arms coming round to cradle her against his warmth.

  ‘What do you see?’ He was whispering into her hair.

  ‘Why, Winterbourne.’ She could see in the moonlight out over the orchard, past the gatehouse, across the wide fields where a barn owl glided, soft as a snowflake.

  ‘Yes, Winterbourne. Not the house, but the land and the people. It was here long before our time and it will be here long after we are gone. Here for our great-grandchildren, Henrietta.’

  She turned, her cheek on his shoulder, and looked up at the tranquil face above hers. ‘What are you telling me, Matthew?’

  ‘That you and I are part of the tapestry and we have our own picture to weave that is but part of the greater whole. That now England is at peace we should not war. Let us put aside the past, live in harmony for the sake of our people and our children.’

  If he had but spoken of love she would gladly have forgotten everything that divided them: the casket, his politics, his first wife, but no words of love had passed his lips.

  But though she couldn't forget those things they could not stop her loving him, wanting him, she knew that now. And he was so close, his warmth and strength encompassed her. With a little sigh, half-regret, half-desire, she twisted in his embrace, her arms around his neck, and sought his lips.

  His mouth on hers, Matthew stood, lifted her and carried her to the waiting bed. He laid her among the soft goose-feather bolsters and reached to pinch out each candle in turn.

  The moonlight was bright in the room, silvering his skin as he shed the night robe, then the shirt after it. The bed dipped as Matthew joined her, then all Henrietta was aware of was the sensation of his warm fingers as he smoothed back the fragile lawn to brush the sensitive skin of her breasts.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hot, bare flesh under her fingers, warm breath fanning her face, an unaccustomed weight next to her dipping the feather mattress. . .

  Henrietta blinked and opened her eyes to brilliant sunshine spilling through the uncurtained south window, over the boards, across the foot of the bed to splash a thick golden bar across Matthew's naked back. He was lying face down, his head cradled in the crook of his arm, still deep in sleep. Cautiously Henrietta lifted her hand from his back and eased herself into a sitting position against the pillows. For the first time in her eighteen years she found herself looking at a man's unclothed body. Her husband's body. The body of the man with whom she'd just spent the night.

  She had never realised a man could be described as beautiful, but he was. The long, taut, finely muscled body, the smooth suppleness of his skin, the satisfying symmetry of shoulder and hip stirred everything female in her. She stretched out a fingertip to trace the dipping line of his spine then drew it back, afraid to wake him before she had come to terms with this familiar stranger in her bed.

  The Matthew who had come to her bed, taken her virginity in the moonlight, he was
a different man from this one who would soon wake in broad daylight, look at her with new eyes. Last night he had wooed her with gentleness, caressed her awakening body with infinite patience and skill until he had swept her up in a passion that overrode all shame.

  Henrietta's hand stole blindly out to taste his skin again, feel the unexpectedly smooth texture over the hard muscle beneath. Were all men this curious combination of rough and smooth, force and sensitivity? She could only guess, having nothing in her experience to compare with last night.

  Her fingertips just grazed the skin in the small of his back then drew back swiftly as he stirred, muttered something into the bolster. Part of her wanted to watch him wake, become aware of her, but part of her wanted him to sleep on so she could have him all to herself – and think.

  A small, cold knot tightened in her chest. She had given him everything her untutored body could offer. He would expect no less of her mind, and that she could not give him until James's secret was no longer hers to guard. And now there was the added complication of the message in the glove. Henrietta told herself there was no need for panic. The chest held only winter cloaks, no one would open it for months.

  But the thought was the worm in the bud. It had spoilt her tranquillity, shattered her mood. Suddenly restless, she wondered what she should do now. From the height of the sun it must be at least eight and the household would be long about its business. She was unused to sleeping on this side of the house, close to the main stairs. As her hearing sharpened she became aware of the clatter of heels on the treads, the muted voices of the servants as they hurried to and from the guest chambers, shaking out the feather mattresses, hanging bedcoverings to air from the rear windows overlooking the yard.

  No doubt the wedding guests would be breaking their fasts below in the hall even now, and the early risers out taking the air in the knot garden or walking up to the Home Farm to see what changes had been made since their last visit. Should she get up, look to her duties as hostess? No, as soon as it was thought she knew they would not expect it, not on the morning after her wedding. Nor, after that boisterous bedding ceremony, did she feel able to look her friends and neighbours in the eye. Not yet at any rate. Aunt Susan would be getting much pleasure from overseeing such a momentous and happy occasion for Winterbourne.

  ‘You are very pensive, Henrietta. What's going on in that dark head?’ Matthew had woken and turned over quietly while she sat lost in thought. One long, questing finger stroked a lock of hair back from her bare shoulder, cool against her suddenly heated flesh.

  Taken unawares, Henrietta felt the betraying colour rise in her face and was rewarded with a lazy, sensual smile that sent shivers down her spine, presaging her body's instinctive response to the promise in that smile.

  ‘Our minds are in accord, I see.’ His smile broadened as he reached up to pull her down into his arms, cradling her naked skin against his long frame, her softness against his hardness.

  ‘Matthew,’ Henrietta whispered, half in shocked protest at his boldness, half in delighted anticipation. ‘Again?’

  ‘That's not what you said at dawn, when, as I recollect, I was trying to get some sleep.’ His teeth nibbled wickedly along her earlobe, the roughness of his unshaven chin grazing her neck. ‘Where has my wanton wife gone? Or are you showing proper consideration at last for my years? There's many an old husband been worn out by a passionate young wife before now.’

  ‘I am not wanton – and you are not old,’ she protested.

  Matthew rolled her on to her back, tickling over her ribs to make her giggle. She looked up into his unshadowed, laughing eyes, which held none of the suspicion they had so often held before. Surely his suspicion that she might be in love with another man was now well and truly banished now?

  ‘Not wanton?’ he teased. ‘Let me be the judge of that. I want you to be wanton – with me. There should be no shame between man and wife.’

  ‘I…I know,’ Henrietta faltered, her breath catching in her throat at his caresses, the movement of his fingertip tracing maddening circles round and round the tip of her breast. ‘But our guests… it must be eight of the clock at least…’ Why was she protesting, fighting her emotions? The very least of her desires was to get up and leave this room. I love him.

  ‘Our guests are in good hands and well able to entertain themselves. Besides,’ Matthew added, his weight pressing her gently into the yielding goose-feather mattress, ‘if they see us at this time in the morning they will conclude I have failed to please you. Perhaps that's true?’ He raised an interrogative eyebrow before dropping his dark head, his lips seeking the swell of her breasts.

  ‘No, Matthew – ’ It began as a denial, then became a protest, but ended in a moan of pure pleasure, her fingers interlacing into the mass of his dark, tumbled hair as desperately as she would have held on to the mane of her horse before a jump.

  *

  Warm, pleasured, shameless, Henrietta curled up against the bedhead and watched her husband stroll naked to the foot of the four-poster and pick up his chamber robe. What had she, Henrietta Wynter, done to deserve a husband like Matthew Sheridan? She had had many suitors, resigned herself to the thought she would marry for duty, to ensure the future of Winterbourne and its people. And now, out of the worst possible beginning, she was in love, even if she couldn't yet tell him.

  And perhaps, one day, he would love her in return.

  She allowed herself to relish the graceful strength of his back as he bent to pick up the robe, the golden sheen of his skin, the length and straightness of his legs, then caught her breath in horror as she saw the savage slash of the scar running across his ribcage.

  ‘Matthew! How did you come by that terrible wound?’

  She scrambled from the bed, dragging on her robe anyhow. By his side she touched its beginning below his left nipple with tentative fingers. ‘Does it pain you still?’ The wound had knitted badly, leaving a raised, reddish welt against the smooth skin. Her own undamaged flesh knotted in a spasm of sympathetic pain.

  His fingers captured hers, abruptly arresting her exploration. ‘It aches now and then when the weather is both wet and cold.’ He shrugged on his robe, lacing it loosely, then pulled the bell-rope by the bedhead. His body was suddenly tight, withdrawn from her and their intimacy.

  ‘But how did it happen? You must have been in danger of your very life.’ Henrietta was appalled, amazed that even in the darkness her caressing fingers had missed the puckered flesh. With her new awareness of him his face and body should have warned her this was forbidden ground, but she still had much to learn about Matthew Sheridan.

  A discreet tap at the door stopped her questions. Matthew turned the key sharply and opened it to reveal Letty standing shyly on the threshold. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Breakfast for your mistress and myself, then bring warm water.’ Wide-eyed with curiosity at her first sight of the newly married pair, Letty bobbed a hasty curtsy before the door was shut on her.

  ‘Was it very dreadful?’ Henrietta would not, could not let the subject drop as he so obviously wanted.

  ‘Yes.’ His mouth twisted in a smile that did not reach his eyes. ‘Too dreadful to fill your ears with.’

  Henrietta tugged urgently at his sleeve. ‘Matthew, I am your wife. If something has hurt you so grievously I want to know, to share it with you. Do you not trust me?’

  Matthew's eyes rested on her face, his expression considering. Then he seemed to reach a decision. ‘It was a pike-thrust. It laid my side open to the bones. Another inch and it would have gutted me.’ It was as if he were describing something which had happened to someone else, there was no emotion, no colour to the bare words.

  ‘A pike-thrust?’ she said slowly, her mind working on the few facts he had given her. ‘You were in battle? You fought in the Rebellion?’

  ‘I fought with Parliament. It was no rebellion.’ There was a warning in his voice but she chose not to heed it.

  ‘Against the King?’ Why had she n
ot realised he would have been a solider? The great Roman-nosed grey was so obviously a cavalry horse and Matthew was no thin-blooded clerk to skulk in his chambers while the country took up arms for a cause he believed in. She had known in her heart, but she had chosen not to face it, not to press it when he had evaded her questions earlier.

  ‘Against the King's tyranny, madam.’ His eyes were growing angry now, hard as emerald, the lines of his face tautening as he fought to control his words.

  ‘I am sorry, Matthew, I did not seek to cross you.’ This was awful, arguing with the man she loved, moments after he'd left her bed. And he was her husband so it was her duty to respect his opinions, even if she couldn't share them. ‘But how could you be slashed by a pikeman if you were in the cavalry? Surely only foot-soldiers...?’

  ‘You think gentlemen fight with swords only and get nice, clean wounds which heal into scars that leave no effect on the body or the mind?’ His voice was harsh, his bleak face frightened her.

  ‘I know some of the common soldiers suffered badly, but surely that was not the fate of gentlemen such as you?’ She was pleading with him, willing him to say it was not so.

  ‘War is no respecter of class or quality, Henrietta,’ he flung at her. ‘You have a strangely idealistic view of slaughter and mutilation.’

  Henrietta flinched. ‘I know these things happened. After all, Robert lost his arm.’

  ‘And I suppose he came home when it was healed. Thinner perhaps and paler, with his sleeve pinned up but otherwise little different on the outside. Do you think he would tell you or Alice what that battlefield was really like? The days of agony he endured after the ministrations of some clumsy surgeon with his saws and knives? What he, and what I, see when we close our eyes and think of it?’

  He took her arm and shook her. ‘Well, I'll tell you. At Newbury it was like a butcher's shambles – men dying in terror and pain in the mud, cries for help where no help could be given except for a merciful sword-cut across the throat, disembowelled horses, men trapped beneath them, dying or dead, limbs hewn off in pools of blood. And always the noise, the clamour of battle, the shouting and screaming and the clash of steel.’