She coughed slightly—the only breath she could control—and attempted to laugh off his advances. “Come, Miguel,” she shifted her shoulder away from him ever so slightly, “did not your father remain for drinks this evening?”
“He knows where to find the wine,” Miguel breathed into the hollow at the base of her neck. “I have a finer vintage here, and I intend to drink myself dizzy. Will you not retire early with me, my sweet?”
“I only thought,” her voice trembled in her throat, “that perhaps he had yet some matters of import to discuss. He was here all day, was he not?”
Miguel bent round to soothe the front of her milky throat with his lips, his hands trailing over her breasts and shoulders to hold her against him. “He often comes, for the house does still belong to him, after all.”
Amália wriggled one breast a little away from his bold fingertips, drawing her shoulder back into his chest to do so. “He comes often, but I seldom see him.” She closed her eyes, swallowing her bounding pulse. She ought to submit to her husband’s caresses, she really ought, but the shock of her afternoon discovery and her growing aversion to Miguel’s touch only loosed her tongue, and she spoke in rapid, thoughtless little bursts.
“As a matter of fact, I sought both of you when I returned today, before Ruy arrived, but could not find either of you. Are there by any chance parts of the house which I have not yet explored?”
She felt more than heard a low rumble of laughter. “Secret rooms! My darling, you have been reading too many novels.”
“Oh,” she shivered, but forced herself to bear up. She first smiled, then affected a little pout, turning to face him and at last removing his blasted fingers from her breasts. “You must go and spoil all my fun, must you? There really is nothing of interest behind some sealed wall? No romantic fancies I might entertain about the old ruins at the western end of the house?”
He spread his hands and shook his head, smiling. “None at all. I am sorry to disappoint you. Perhaps we may have some old chambers built, simply to satisfy your whims.”
She wrinkled her brow. “By no means. Distasteful things, ruins. One never knows what might be lurking there without one’s knowledge. Do you suppose any rodents or larger creatures have burrowed into those walls?”
He draped his hands over her hips again, but was not content to leave them there. He drew close to slide them down the curve of her backside, lowering his mouth to her ear. “Undoubtedly,” he mumbled. A moment later his fingers were hungrily clutching at her rear, pawing up the hollow of her back, pulling her tightly against him and pressing his firmness to her stomach. He groaned inarticulately as he drew her earlobe between his teeth and rocked her body against his.
Amália shuddered. She could not help it. There was something about Miguel—had always been—and now she could put a name to it. He was lying to her. Lying about the house, probably about his father, and certainly about his own knowledge of both. The only thing about him which seemed genuine was his passion—no, his lust, for passion implied some deeper, genuine feeling and regard. Surely if he truly felt such for her, he would not lie!
Her hands raised to his shoulders to push violently away, but she forced herself to still them, resting them instead on his chest as a reciprocating wife might. Perhaps he was only protecting her. Perhaps there was truly nothing of interest, and he did not care to bore her with whatever dull affairs of politics his father undertook. Perhaps she had imagined everything, and she was only robbing herself of whatever happiness their union might bring her with these fruitless and vile accusations rumbling through her mind.
But that voice…. No, she had not imagined it! And they had not been the carefree tones of some wanderer lost in the ruins, or the laboured efforts of a mason working at the old stones. The cries had been anguished, bitter—tortured, even. And the inflections of the words carried to her—no voice native to her ears had it been! There had been a foreign, yet deliriously familiar quality to it; one that had thrilled to her core and breathed life into the memories of the girl she had been, just over a year ago.
The gravity of these thoughts weighed her hands, and without intention or thought, she had pushed Miguel away. He stepped back, his expression mystified. “My precious? You do not fear some creature finding its way to your own room, do you? Be not concerned, for we are quite safe here from those older chambers. Moreover, I am here,” he grinned charmingly.
“I was only wondering,” she gasped tremblingly as his lips bent to assault her décolletage, “if it was possible to walk through some day. Only as a point of curiosity, you understand. Are there still doors to the old stairwells, or have they all been sealed off?”
“Doors! I should think they rotted off their hinges long ago. There would be nothing to see in any case, for it has been vacant for decades now. You know after the quake many houses lost such older halls, and most never rebuilt them in quite the same way. There were sadly not enough funds in those days to do so, but if it pleases you, we shall endeavour to rebuild it ourselves one day. A sunlit hall, set facing the river to please my flower. It would be a fitting legacy to pass to our children, would it not?” He emphasised his comments with a renewal of his ardour, claiming each of her curves for his own and tracing his mouth from the tip of her bare shoulder—when had he slipped her gown from it? —up to the base of her ear.
Amália’s core clenched, sending a shudder through her being and permitting an audible gasp from her lips. She bent, curving herself away from him and capturing the hands roving over her most sensitive places. “Oh!” she cried hoarsely, then flattened her back against the casement.
“My darling?” Miguel did not lower his hands, but held them aloft and twined his fingers through hers. “What is it?”
She opened her mouth, gazing back into the face of the man she had married. So genteel, so proper. A veneer of sweet lies, palatable only on the first hesitant taste, then turning to bile when partaken of. “I—” she clasped her hand self-consciously over her stomach, pressing her weight more firmly back against the wall. How could she bear his attentions, now when she had finally begun to recognise the truth of her misgivings? She could not take him to her bed, forcing herself to lie sedately as he sought his pleasure, all while knowing some other wretch also endured misery at his hands!
Her fingers tightened over the bodice of her gown, and they lent her the inspiration she wanted. “Oh, do forgive me, Miguel. I… it was a sudden pain in my stomach.”
His eyes kindled. “Dare I hope, my flower—”
“No! I fear it is a pain of quite a different kind. It sometimes transpires so abruptly, I… oh, forgive me, Miguel, but I believe my courses have come upon me. I do beg your pardon, but I believe I shall be indisposed this evening.”
He drew back, his jaw tightening and a flint sparking in his eyes. “Not at all, my darling. You have no control over such matters, of course.”
“You are most forbearing, my husband,” she sighed in relief.
He backed away, his displeasure evident despite his easy reception of her dismissal. “A man with a treasure such as you, my sweet, need not be concerned for some small delay to his pleasures. What matter a few days? I shall bid you a pleasant evening then, my angel.”
Amália sagged against the wall as he left. This reprieve would be but brief, though her quick thinking had purchased her a few days, at least, to sort out her fears. Was her husband possibly unaware of the doings in the underground chambers? Was this captive a justified prisoner of war, and his presence a necessary secret? There might yet be some perfectly innocent explanation. As she was bound to Miguel for life, she desperately hoped so.
Longbourn
Itwaswithaweary heart she trudged to her bed that night. Alone—so mercifully alone! —Elizabeth retired to her room as the weight of a thousand solitary nights dragged at her shoulders.
For all of six seconds she had tossed about the notion of wedding John Lucas, at her father’s suggestion. He was a good enough sort—respectable, tolerably good-looking, standing heir to a modest property and possessed of a well-regarded family… but ignorant as a post.
