Marriage Under Siege. Anne O'Brien

cast aside the covers and stood beside the bed, hands on hips, to survey her with a frown. Whatever the problem, she was clearly terrified. Acting on instinct, he seized the coverlet and stripped it away. ‘Honoria …’

      A whimper issued from the bed. If it was not all so distressing, he would have laughed at this extreme reaction to his lovemaking. But there was nothing amusing here; he could neither force her nor ignore her distress and walk away.

      He leaned over the bed, picked her up in his strong arms as if she weighed nothing, wrapped her in the coverlet with deft movements as if she were a child, and carried her to the settle by the fire. She was too surprised to protest other than a squeak of shock. He placed her there while he stirred the flames and recovered his own robe. Then he returned and sat beside her, sensing the tiniest of movements as she would have pulled away from him. She was watching him, aware of his every movement, every gesture, eyes dry and strained. He knew that if she had been able, she would have fled the room.

      He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, a gesture that she had come to recognise. She flinched again. ‘This is no good!’

      Without warning he scooped her up again and settled her on his lap, imprisoning her within the circle of his arms as, with gentle fingers, he pushed her head down to rest upon his shoulder.

      ‘There.’ He stroked her hair a little. ‘There is nothing to concern you now. I shall not do anything you do not wish.’

      Silence settled, except for the crackle of the fire, as he continued to smooth his hand over her hair. He was aware of her fingers clutching at the satin collar of his robe in a vice-like grip, but he made no comment. Simply sat and held and waited. Gradually her breathing calmed and she relaxed, sufficient for her to release her grasp and rest against him.

      ‘Now.’ He kept his voice low. ‘Talk to me, Honoria. Will you tell me why you are so distressed? Do you trust me enough to tell me?’

      She said nothing, but he felt the merest nod of her head against his throat.

      ‘Did my cousin … did Edward rape you?’

      ‘No.’ The answer was immediate. It came as a wail of anguish.

      ‘Then what happened? Things can never be so bad that they cannot be put right. Talk to me, Honoria.’

      Without thought he turned his face against her hair in an unconscious caress and pressed his lips to her temple in the softest of kisses. Yet it was her undoing. All the tears, all the anxieties and self-doubt, the horror, the sleepless nights, dammed up over the past weeks, overflowed and washed through her in response to that one innocent gesture of kindness. Her breath caught again and again and she could do nothing to prevent the harsh sobs that shook her frame, tears streaming down her face. In the end she gave up trying to control them and simply wept.

      All he could do was hold her. She was beyond any comforting words—and he did not know what to say to ease such emotion. So he held her. He murmured foolish words for their sound rather than their content and continued to stroke her hair, her arms, her back, whilst the emotion tore her in two. His heart ached for her. Who would have believed that her outward composure could hide such pain and anguish?

      Minutes ticked by. Gradually her sobs lessened. A hiccup, a sniffle. She lay exhausted and drained against his chest and he was content to allow it to be so for a little while. When he was finally sure that her tears were gone, he used the corner of the coverlet to wipe her eyes. She resisted at first, turning her face against his shoulder, intent on hiding the worst of the ravages from his scrutiny. What would he think of her? But he would not allow it and, with a hand under her chin, lifted her face to the light.

      ‘Talk to me, Honoria.’

      But she did not know where to begin.

      ‘Then I will ask the questions and you try to answer. Let us see how far we can get.’ He had no intention of allowing her to hide from him. ‘You said that Edward did not force you.’ A flash of warning, of illumination, struck him here. ‘Did Edward … was he able to consummate the marriage?’

      She shook her head, hiding her face.

      ‘Are you still virgin?’

      She heard the amazement in his voice and was ashamed. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

      ‘Did he not try? Was it his ill health that prevented him?’

      ‘He tried!’ The words now poured out, as had the tears. ‘Every night.’ She shuddered with disgust and fear as the memories rushed back. ‘Again and again.’

      ‘My poor child,’ he murmured.

      ‘I am not a child!’ Anger and despair mingled in a deadly mix. ‘He wanted an heir, he said. Before he died. That was the only reason for our marriage … for his spending so much money. He tried so often but he was unable … I could not bear it. I know that marriage means obedience to one’s husband … but I could not bear it. He was so …’ She could not find the words.

      ‘I understand.’

      ‘Do you? How could you?’ Now she found that she could not stop, even when she would have pressed her fingers against her mouth to hold back the expression of her worst memories. ‘He was so gross, so fat and unwashed. His body was covered with thick hair. And … his hands were damp and … slimy, with blackened fingernails. And he touched me …’ She pressed her hand to her stomach to ward off the wave of nausea. ‘He prodded and groped, squeezing and pinching. I hated it. How could I be expected to find any wifely pleasure in that? How could I ever accept such indignities?’

      ‘No.’ He pressed his lips together, fighting to contain the anger that built within him as he visualised the picture which Honoria so clearly, so vividly painted, even though he suspected that she had kept the worst from him. ‘I don’t suppose you could.’

      ‘And he was unable. He blamed me. He said that I was cold and unfeeling—a frigid wife—and I was. He said that it was all my fault—that I had robbed him of his manhood and deserved to be punished.’ She shivered against him, but there was no longer the threat of tears.

      ‘Did he ever harm you?’ He deliberately kept his voice calm.

      ‘No. He never struck me. But with words, with the lash of those, he could destroy me. He said that he had been tricked into the marriage—and that I was not woman enough to entice him or pleasure him. I was a failure. I could not fulfil my part of the marriage settlement.’ She was quiet for a moment. Then, ‘I must disgust you.’

      ‘Honoria …’ What on earth were the right words to say to her? In the end he went for simplicity. ‘My dear girl, you could never disgust me. You were not a failure.’ Now he understood the whole tragic tale. A gross old man, intent on getting an heir on his new wife in the short time left to him. Without sensitivity or finesse, rendered impotent by illness and old age. He had put all the blame for his failure on to her slight shoulders and she lacked the experience to determine the truth of it. ‘It was not your fault. And you have to realise that it does not have to be like that between a man and a woman. There can be delight and warmth … and trust.’

      ‘Trust? I find it impossible to believe that. And as for delight …’ She shuddered against him.

      His lordship sighed. Now was not the time to convince her otherwise. The emotional upheaval had taken its toll and she leaned against him, her earlier fears forgotten, but yet drained and exhausted.

      ‘I am afraid of failing again.’ And afraid that you will measure me unfavourably against Katherine.

      Those few words that she dared to utter spoke volumes. He held her close to rub his cheek against her hair.

      ‘You will not fail again. I will show you,’ he reassured her softly. ‘But not now, not tonight. You need to rest.’

      Mansell stood and lifted her, without protest, and carried her back to the high bed. There he settled her under the covers and, before she could speak, stretched beside her, pulling her firmly into his arms.