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Straightening his coat, John Russell gave a small nod directed at the sky and went inside his home. He had much to do. First he would write to his son and call him home. Tom could help in this and would want to avenge his sister. He should also arrange a meeting with his solicitors to assure his affairs were in proper order just in case.
And then?
Well, he’d do the only thing he could do. He’d serve a heaping dish of cold revenge to the one who’d bloody well earned it.
Chapter Fifteen
Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task.
—Henry James, “The Middle Years” (1893)
The rolling landscape slowly changed from fields stippled with forest to windswept coastline the closer they moved toward the sea.
The Bristol Channel spanned just thirteen miles of open water from the Somerset coast to Wales—a bordered natural bay extending from the mouth of the great Severn River. The area bustled with laden ships setting into coastal ports, some legitimate, and others much less so, fishing cutters and passage out of England.
Jeremy pointed out places of interest as they came to them. Georgina listened quietly and asked the occasional question. As the miles mounted, he’d drawn ever closer to her in the seat, until he’d managed to get her tucked under his arm and leaning upon his chest.
Georgina resting next to his beating heart, relying upon him for strength, puffed him with pride. He memorized the weight of her, and the shape, adoring how she fit to him. The steady sway of the coach affected the motion of their bodies rocking together gently.
There were lots of other ways to rock a body, and the visions swimming in his head weren’t at all “gentle.” No, he was awash in carnal yearning for his new bride. He wanted her so badly, underneath him, taking him in, a willing vessel for his hard, driving flesh. He wanted to claim her body as his, to protect and care for her. He wanted to meld with her and incinerate all that horrible shit that’d been done to her. But what if he just scared her more and reminded her of her pain?
This was so difficult, the path he had set for them, and there was no guidebook to help him along. He was the masculine version of a whore, who liked it rough, with a bride whose only experience at sex was a savage rape.
Could there be any more disparity between them?
He also felt a little guilty about claiming a husband’s rights tonight with their marriage so rushed. But not that guilty. He wanted her more than he could ever recall wanting a woman, and now with the vows read, he found it difficult to think about anything else. Years of sensual indulgence weren’t that easy to put aside.
Yes. He would have her tonight, and hard though it may be, he was determined to be more tender and sensitive than he’d ever done. God help me.
“Would you speak of Hallborough, so I can know it just a little?” Georgina looked up at him, so trusting and perfectly serene in his arms.
Unable to resist what lifted toward him, he kissed her rosy lips and then traced them with his thumb. “I love kissing you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For kissing you?”
She shook her head. “For wanting me.”
His answer to that was to bestow more kisses, and it was a long time before he could pull himself away to speak. “That’s never been a problem for me.” He traced her lips slowly, circling the same path over and over. “I noticed you years ago really, when you were just a young thing. Waiting for you without even realizing it. Thank you for agreeing to take me on, Mrs. Greymont.” He rested his chin on the top of her head. “I like the sound of that—the ‘Mrs. Greymont’ part. Someday you’ll be Lady Greymont.”
“I know. That’s what Papa said to me yesterday. I thought he was talking about Lord Pellton the whole time and why I fainted when I realized it was you who had come for me.”
Jeremy could only respond with a snarl, a scowl curling his upper lip. His teeth clenched over his jaw, and he felt his neck grow taut. “He’ll not come near you, or he’ll be sleeping in a coffin, the bastard!”
He wasn’t sure what to do about Pellton and his nephew. The guard from the bordello, Luc, was now a paid informant. And he had a name for the shit bastard, too—Simon Strawnly.
Jeremy’s ultimate priority was to protect his wife, both her person and her reputation. He couldn’t allow further pain to touch her and intended that she never discover the identity of her attacker. Acting like a crazed bull whenever Pellton’s name was mentioned might not be the best means of concealment though.
“Sorry, sweetheart. That was unseemly of me, but I never liked him.” He grinned, feeling rather sheepish.
“On that we do agree, and I’m sorry I mentioned his name. I won’t do it again. Tell me about your home?” she asked again.
“It is our home now, and it is lovely. Hallborough Park overlooks the sea at Kilve. From the sea path you can look across the channel and see the Brecon Beacons in South Wales if the sky is clear. The Quantock Hills lie behind us. The flowers on the heath are spectacular in summer. You can hear the waves. I think the sound of the sea is one of the most comforting in all the world. We’ll take our walks along the beach, and at night we can watch the stars shine over the ocean from the house. I’ve arranged for your horse to be brought along with Samson, and you’ll be able to ride as you wish. Have you ever ridden along the sand?”
“No, but it sounds so wonderful.”
“Our neighbors, the Rourkes, are good friends, Darius and Marianne. They are recently wed, only since summer, and I think you’ll like her. I know she’ll welcome you very kindly. Marianne likes to sketch landscapes, and I’ve seen your sketches. You’re very good. The two of you will have that in common.”
