he could see Stephen, even once. But he had never visited the boy. If he were going to go through with this arrangement, he knew he must keep the greatest distance possible between them. Meeting Stephen as a stranger would be impossible—he was sure the anguish would rip him apart. He would probably wind up in an opium den, and God only knew that he drank too much as it was. Or he would meet the boy and change his mind. How selfish would that be?
And he could try to remind himself that one day Stephen would know the truth, but there was no consolation to be gained. It would be decades before he could ever approach Stephen and tell him the truth of his paternity, unless Mowbray died an early and untimely death. Rex despised Mowbray, but not enough to wish such a fate upon him.
Rex looked at the dark stone walls surrounding him, closing in on him, and felt as if he were being buried alive, there at Bodenick, where he had toiled so tremendously to turn ruins into a lucrative enterprise. But Land’s End had become a place of exile from the moment he had realized he must forsake his son. It did not matter that he had chosen the exile. The day the yearly letter arrived was the day that he always felt the utter hopelessness of his life. It was the day there was never enough air, and that the weight of his life became crushing.
Rex seized his crutch and swung it viciously. The lamp fell to the floor, shattering, and his carefully organized papers flew everywhere. He stood, leaning against the desk for balance, and thrust the crutch violently at the remaining items on his desk. A glass, decanter, paperweight and more papers were swept to the floor.
He panted, closing his eyes, fighting for control. This day would pass. It always did. Tomorrow he would inspect his broodmares, return to work on the new barn, and begin to fill the pond he’d made in the gardens behind the castle tower. His body continued to shudder. His breathing remained hard and labored. The pain and despair clawed at his heart—he could feel talons inside his chest.
He glanced down at the decanter, which had not broken. He bent, the springs in his crutch allowing it to contract as he wished, retrieving the bottle. Long ago he had learned how to use the crutch in every possible way. It was custom-made, with springs and hinges, and he was no longer aware of its existence. It had become an extension of his body. It had become his right leg.
A quarter of the whiskey remained and he drained as much as he could in a single gulp.
A housemaid hurried into the chamber. “My lord!” She cried, taking in the mess he had created with a single, wide-eyed glance.
Rex finished off the contents of the decanter and then placed it on the desk. He slowly looked at his housemaid. There was a better way to forget.
Anne was on her knees, picking up his papers. She was twenty years old, buxom and pretty and very, very lusty. She had come into his employ two months ago, making it clear she wished to do far more than clean his house and launder his clothes. He refused to deny himself pleasure and passion—he could not survive without sex—and had been tiring of the affair he was having with the innkeeper’s widowed daughter. He had instantly hired Anne. Her first chore had been to join him in bed and they had enjoyed themselves immensely—and had been doing so ever since. He hadn’t been her first lover and he would not be her last. He had compensated her for her extra duties by providing extra stores for her family, who were tenant farmers in a neighboring parish, struggling to make ends meet. Her salary was also a generous one.
Recently, though, he had seen her flirting with the village blacksmith, a handsome lad her own age, newly arrived in Lanhadron. He sensed where that was leading and did not mind, as she deserved a home and family of her own. In fact, as long as he could find a new servant—and a new mistress—he would encourage the match and give them a handsome wedding present.
But she hadn’t married the young blacksmith yet. And pleasure brought escape. He wished to escape into her body now. “Anne. Leave the mess for later.”
She started, looking up, her eyes wide. “My lord, you care for your papers the way me mum cares for my little sisters. I know how important your papers are!”
He felt a new tension arise, there in his breeches, straining at the wool fabric. And it was as he wanted. “Come here,” he said very softly.
She became still, understanding him. And slowly she stood, laying some papers on his desk, their gazes locking, a flush now on her full cheeks. She began to smile. “My lord, didn’t I please you last night?” she murmured.
His breeches had become much tighter. He smiled back at her, reaching for her hand. “Yes, you did. Very much. But last night is over, is it not?”
“You’re the randiest lord,” she whispered as he reeled her in.
“Do you mind?” he asked, running his left hand down her back until he had clasped her very full buttock. He pulled her hard against his manhood, now raging, remaining perfectly and solidly balanced with the crutch.
“How can I mind when you’re such a gent you take your pleasure after me, always?”
Her remark satisfied him. He had always tried to please the women in his bed—he couldn’t imagine a satisfactory encounter otherwise. And then there was the obvious fact that he wished to compensate for his injury. No woman had ever thought about it a second time, not after the pleasure he gave.
“Do you wish to go up to your room?” she whispered, reaching down to stroke his thick length through his breeches.
His breath caught. “No. I wish to take you right here, right now, on my sofa.” He pulled her around him and pushed her back onto the sofa. Fluidly he moved on top of her, using his thighs to spread her legs wide. He pressed against her sex and she whimpered, laying her hands on his bare, wet chest, her eyes beginning to glaze over. She gasped and her palms drifted down to the waistband of his breeches. And very deliberately, she traced the huge line of his arousal with her fingertips.
He grunted, reaching below her skirts. The best thing about a lusty maid was the utter lack of complication, the utter lack of pretense. How she appeared was exactly how she was. Anne wanted sex and pleasure—and food on her family’s table. She wanted exactly what he had to offer and a bit of extra coin, nothing more. Treachery on her part would be impossible.
And she was very ready now. He rubbed his fingers against her wet, heated flesh until tears formed in her eyes and she was whispering for him to hurry. He rubbed her until she began to writhe in an impending climax. He bent, used his tongue, and felt triumph as she climaxed.
She didn’t cling. Gasping breathlessly, she deftly opened the buttons on his breeches. He smiled with satisfaction now and became still, allowing her to do as she willed. The moment he sprang into her hand, she leaned toward him, eagerly seeking him with her mouth, his favor returned. Rex threw his head back. There was only pleasure now.
WHY HADN’T SHE COME to Cornwall sooner?
Blanche stared out of her coach window, awed by the stark desolation of the moors. Flat, pale and treeless, they seemed to stretch away into eternity. A freezing wind swept them, for she had her head out of the window, and her nose was ice-cold. But the skies were vividly blue and dotted with passing white clouds, the sun strong and bright.
She ducked her head inside the coach, her heart having picked up a swifter beat some time ago, when they had turned off the main highway at the sign pointing to both Land’s End and Bodenick Castle. Leaning across the seat, aware of her maid staring at her from the facing bench, she lifted the other window, allowing more freezing air into the coach. The ocean was a shocking sapphire blue, reaching into an even vaster eternity, one belonging to the Lord. By looking somewhat ahead, she
