Shining Threads Read online

  They had ridden that day up to Friar’s Mere, guiding their mounts amongst the browning, mist-soaked bracken which dripped about them. It was cold that autumn, almost winter though September was barely done with, and they both wore warmly lined capes and gloves. Their own breath wreathed with the horses’ about them and when they dismounted to look over the shaded valley, she shivered suddenly, not with cold but with some sudden disquiet which came from nowhere to trouble her.

  He draped a companionable arm across her shoulders, wise in the ways of women. Best not to startle her too soon with his own needs, and so he remained, despite the magnificent diamond on her finger, just as he had always been, cousin, companion, friend.

  ‘Are you cold, sweetheart,’ he asked lightly, ‘or just contemplating the future as Mrs Drew Greenwood and finding it somewhat daunting?’

  She looked up at him sharply. She was not always sure lately when he was teasing. In his new role as her ‘fiancé’ she supposed he had the right now to be somewhat more . . . familiar with her, not intimate, for that was reserved for their wedding night, but not exactly the same as he had been as ‘cousin’. But he was just the same. Both of them had suffered a great loss. They had been bruised and lonely, needing, probably, to be loved and they had given something to one another on the day when he had asked her to marry him and she had accepted gratefully. She needed warmth and some emotion he seemed to be offering. She rested easily when she was with him, trusting him as implicitly as she had always done and she was aware that in her he found something he had lost with Pearce.

  ‘Oh, really, Tessa, don’t tell me you don’t find this somewhat strange?’

  ‘Well . . .’ She knew what he meant and was grateful that he was treating it with humour and lightness.

  ‘It is new to us both, this “betrothal”.’ He grinned down at her, making her smile as he exaggerated the word.

  ‘I’m not afraid, Drew Greenwood.’ Immediately she began to bristle, shying away from him indignantly but he pulled her back, laughing, his eyes narrowed and shining.

  ‘Yes, you are, just a little bit. Afraid that things might be changed between us because of . . . well, because you will be my wife, but I promise you they won’t.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘Would you like to try something?’

  ‘What?’ she said suspiciously.

  ‘Well, we are betrothed, as they say, so surely it would be allowed?’

  ‘What?’ she said again.

  ‘A kiss to seal our . . . pact.’ He smiled even more engagingly, turning her so that she faced him. He reached up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind her ear, his gaze moving across her face, resting on her smooth brow, the puzzled depths of her eyes, the touch of rose in her cheeks put there by the cold, and finally, her soft, parted lips.

  ‘What pact?’

  ‘To marry, of course, and besides, it won’t be the first time. Remember that Christmas when Pearce and I caught you under the mistletoe? We each stole a kiss from you. In fact, I do believe we had no need of theft.’

  Her mouth curled up in a wide smile and as it did so he placed his own carefully against it. It was a smiling kiss, light as thistledown with no more in it than a friend might give to another. He tasted the sweetness of her breath and felt the warmth of it drift into his open mouth. She leaned against him, willing to go on, her eyes so lovely and trusting told him, and he caught his breath.

  ‘Did you know that in this light your eyes have the palest, softest blue in them?’ he said wonderingly. ‘Like the smoke you see against a summer sky. Transparent almost.’

  ‘Oh, Drew, stop teasing.’ Her arms crept up behind him, her hands gripping one another in the centre of his back. His were across her shoulders and he pulled her into them, tucking her head into the hollow of his neck.

  ‘I need you, Tessa,’ he said quietly, his breath moving her dark hair.

  ‘I’m here, Drew,’ she answered and when she looked up at him, smiling, his face was serious. He held her gaze for a moment, then bent his head and took her lips again and this time it was different. For a moment she wanted to draw back for this was how Robby had kissed her. This was warm and filled with desire and she was not really ready . . . no . . . not with this man who was her cousin. She closed her eyes so that Drew could not read the expression in them, the expression which surely would reveal to him that . . . that other kisses had been left there, and in her heart, and that no one, no others could replace the ones she had lost.

  But when she opened her eyes again there he was, Drew Greenwood, her beloved cousin, grinning delightedly, dashingly handsome, familiar, loved, winsome and dear.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, ‘how was that?’ Taking her lead from him, she pretended to bob a curtsey, dimpling in laughter.

  ‘Very nice, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Have you another to spare, d’you think, since I must admit to finding it very pleasant myself?’

  He was breathing rather more heavily than usual when he drew away, but he merely looked into her face as though to check that she had not taken fright and when he could see that she hadn’t, he pulled her gently back into the circle of his arms.

  ‘That’s enough for today, cousin,’ he said, his voice soft and inclined to tremble over the top of her head.

  The next time was a week later. They had dined with the Longworths, just the two of them invited, much to Laurel’s chagrin since she had expected, as Drew’s sister and closest relative until Joss and Kit returned from Italy, to be included in any celebration given for the newly engaged couple.

  They had drunk an excellent wine with dinner, and champagne to toast the happy pair who really made a splendid picture, everyone agreed. That girl of Jenny Harrison’s was quite superb in her white lace gown, and the effect of the broad scarlet sash wound tight about her slender waist and the matching ribbons in her dark hair, dressed in tumbled curls, was simply stunning. She was almost as tall as her bridegroom-to-be in her white satin high-heeled slippers, and he was immaculate in his black and white evening clothes, a perfect contrast in his male beauty for her loveliness. How magnificent they were, how handsome, and could anyone fail to believe that they were not made for each other and that their future together could be anything less than perfect?

  They had held hands in the carriage on the drive home, still laughing and inclined to fall against one another in the hilarity produced by several glasses of champagne. Like children they were, giggling over the rather pompous but kindly speech the Squire had made in their honour, and the number of times they had been told how well suited they were, perhaps, as Drew remarked gleefully, because they were both from the class known as ‘trade’ and therefore, one supposed, to consummate the perfect union.

  It was dim in the hallway. Briggs had left one lamp at the foot of the stairs before retiring, as he had been ordered to do since they were to be late. The logs in the enormous fireplace had smouldered down to whispering ash, a golden flame here and there, and a curl of smoke. It was warm, intimate, a place where they were both relaxed, at home and secure.

  ‘I think I’ll have a brandy before I go up,’ Drew drawled. ‘Would you care to join me?’ An eyebrow arched questioningly.

  ‘Why not?’ She was light-headed and pleasantly tired, ready for bed but unwilling somehow to let go of the content that lay about her.

  The brandy made her gasp and the heat of it rose from her stomach where it had found the champagne, and put flags of scarlet in her cheeks to match the ribbons in her delightfully tumbled hair.

  ‘Slowly, cousin,’ Drew laughed, putting an arm about her shoulders as they sat side by side on the sofa before the dying drawing-room fire. ‘Sip it slowly and then, when you are almost asleep, I shall take you up to bed.’

  The words meant nothing to Tessa beyond what they said: it had not yet occurred to her to think of her cousin in ‘that way’, and the implication which sprang instantly to Drew’s more sexually alert mind completely escaped her. She felt a quiver run through him and the clear
image of Will Broadbent came surprisingly to her mind. Why, she thought, at this particular moment, should she think of him? Then she was conscious of the suddenly taut presence of Drew beside her, his arm rigid across her shoulders.

  ‘What is it, Drew?’ she asked though really she knew. How could she not when she had been loved by Will Broadbent, who had caressed every part of her, sweet and secret parts which had set her on fire for more?

  But Drew, though a man too, was her cousin, and had been all her life. That was who he was.

  The simple and, to her, quite logical thought slipped into her mind, to be followed by the equally logical and obvious reply that they were to be, not just cousins, but man and wife. In that moment she knew they must take that next step now, before she had time to dwell on it, before she had time to consider the mechanics of it, before she had time to jib at it, to get cold feet and turn away from it, since he was her cousin, dammit. It must be done without thought, without design. It must be done now.

  Blindly she turned to him, not knowing where to begin, and as swiftly as he had come Will Broadbent winged away, and her heart, on which he was still engraved, was filled with Robby Atherton. Kisses . . . oh, Robby, Robby, my love, that was how . . . how it had begun . . . sweet, warm . . . Dear God, how she loved him still, but she loved Drew . . . she did . . . she did, but not, sadly, in the way she had loved Robby . . . Robby, Samuel Robert Atherton . . . and with none of the passion she had given to Will Broadbent.

  His mouth was there waiting for hers and wisely – how did he know her so well? understand her as he did? – wisely he let her take the lead, sitting almost passively, there, his arm relaxed now about her shoulders, waiting. She was aware in that moment that if he had responded eagerly, attempted to move at a faster pace than she could manage, she would have let Robby Atherton into her soul, and refused him.

  She could taste the brandy on his lips. They were warm and very soft, moist on their inside. They moved with hers in little butterfly motions, soft and fluttering, waiting, smiling, she could see that, in pleasure.

  ‘You are very dear to me, Tessa,’ he murmured, again the right words, with no mention of love. He put up a hand, a brown, familiar hand which she had known all her life and placed the palm against her cheek. He began to guide her then, holding her cheek gently as he kissed her, his fingers warm against her skin. Sighing, his lips moved to her eyes, resting against each one before going on to her eyebrow, the line of her hair, a soft whisper of breath in her ear, his mouth trembling, lingering on her jawline and into the soft hollow at the base of her throat. She arched her body without thought, feeling his lips move across her skin and the arm which had been resting lightly across her shoulders tightened as he turned her towards him. His hand was under her hair, pulling at ribbons and pins, caressing the back of her neck, still gentle, without urgency. She could see the outline of his dark face above hers and the blue glow of his eyes.

  For a moment he hesitated, lifting a questioning eyebrow, giving her, she knew, time to draw back, to wait for another time. It has to be done at sometime, his quizzical expression said, and why not now, in the spontaneity of now?

  He turned her then, taking her stillness for acquiescence, resting her across his knee. His arms were strong and positive, lifting her up, and his kisses were demanding, opening her lips beneath his own. His tongue teased hers, his hand was smoothing her shoulder, her upper arm, the other holding her since the moment had come and gone when she might refuse.

  ‘Tessa . . .’ His fingers moved slowly, saying there was no hurry, no need to rush this sweet moment, caressing her throat, smoothing her skin until it reached the soft upper curve of her breast.

  ‘Not here, Drew.’

  ‘In your room, then. I have to have you now before you change your mind . . .’

  They stood up awkwardly, then he swung her up into his arms, his lips finding hers, allowing no shrinking away and her arms clung about his neck, her mouth clung to his mouth, afraid to detach herself from the physical junction which was the only one she knew about her cousin Drew.

  Her room was warm and sweet-scented, familiar, scattered with the things she had left there before setting off for Longworth Hall. Emma had made up the fire and drawn the curtains, even turned back the bedclothes, and when he placed her on the bed it seemed it had been waiting there for them, for this which was to happen.

  Though he was breathing hard now she could see he was making a great effort to hold back for her sake, since was she not virgin, inexperienced in these matters? She wanted to cry out to him to hurry, to get it done, to get it over with. She wanted it behind her, that first time, so that they could be Drew and Tessa again, cousins, friends and, one supposed, lovers.

  He gently drew down her dress, exposing her breasts and when she closed her eyes in confusion he put up a hand and cupped her cheek.

  ‘Don’t look away, sweetheart,’ he whispered, kissing her softly on her mouth and cheek and chin. ‘We have nothing of which to be ashamed. Look at me, look at my eyes. See in them what I feel for you.’ It was there, his love, his admiration for her as a woman. Not as Tessa Harrison, cousin, but Tessa Harrison, woman, his woman. ‘I should be patient with you since you have the look in your eyes which says you will grit your teeth and endure it, as women are expected to, but there is no need . . .’

  When he had undressed her completely he stood for several moments exploring with his eyes every part of her body, lingering at her breast and thighs, not touching yet but completely absorbed in the loveliness of her. He began to undress himself and she watched him, diverted by the beauty and fineness of his body, so different from Will’s. Will had been broad, heavy, hard, so strong he made Drew seem a lightweight in comparison, but Drew Greenwood was slender, arrow-straight and yet with a fluid grace. Easy and lean as an athlete, smooth-skinned with a fine matt of crisp chest hair which travelled down his belly to between his thighs. Will had been . . . Dear God, why should she think . . . ? And in that last moment her mind, amazed, was filled with the memory of him, then Drew bent over her, his candle-lit body eager, his eyes searching hers. She lifted her arms urgently and wound them round his neck, wanting to blot out everything but him and pulled him down to her. His body entered hers and it was done. He groaned and shuddered and called her name as he took possession of her, and it was done.

  They lay for a while and she stroked his back, feeling the satiny strength of it and the muscles bunched beneath the skin. A moment ago they had been rigid with need, now they were relaxed and spent. It was as though he had poured into her all his strength, the boyish strength which was Drew Greenwood, leaving him defenceless, weakened, vulnerable, as he had been when he returned from the Crimea. She was the one with undiminished power now, her strength gained from him, her body unbreakable, not weakened as his appeared to be. She wondered if this was all that was to be between herself and her cousin, this . . . tenderness she felt, this warm and gentle love, just the same as it had always been, even after what had just happened, for Drew Greenwood. Was she never to know again that lusty delight she and Will had shared, that joy, that abandonment, their bodies clasped together in the sensuality a man and woman can know?

  He sighed and sat up, studying her face in the pale glow of the candlelight. He bent to kiss her, cupping her breast with his strong hand.

  ‘You are quite beautiful, my darling.’

  ‘If you say so.’ In her body, deep down, was that familiar sensation connected with his fingers which rolled her nipple gently. It began to stir and she felt a great desire to lift her hips, to move them up towards him, but he lay back on the pillow, putting an arm about her and the feeling fled away. She put her head on his chest and when he pulled the quilt up around them she knew they would fall asleep with the greatest of ease, fitting together even in this new environment, as they had always done.

  They made love again and again in those months before their marriage, wherever and whenever they could find the opportunity, each time more eas
ily, each time more surely, each time more enjoyably, and she was grateful that he seemed to find such joy in it and in her. Though he did not say the words, she knew he loved her, not just as he had always done, but in the way a man loves a woman. And she was thankful, thankful for that love and for his need of her. It warmed her, gave her comfort and pleasure, made her soft with him, and for him. She would devote her life now to being what he needed, to giving whatever it was he wanted. Not submissive for it was not in her nature, she told herself, but ready, always, to take him in her arms, to love him, to support him, to allow him to support her, which was much more important. Robby Atherton was dead now, dead and buried in the grave of her heart, and Drew Greenwood had sprung up to take his place, and the whisper that was Will Broadbent, which came sometimes to ask what of her joy, and her fulfilment, was scarcely noticed.

  21

  She had seen nothing of Will for two years, not since she had ridden over to Annie’s on the day before Robby Atherton was to speak to her mother, so when he rose casually from the chair before Annie’s fire as she entered the cottage she felt her breath leave her body in an explosion so violent she thought she was about to swoon.

  She was to be married the following Saturday and the invitation, written in Miss Copeland’s beautiful copperplate and sent to Annie over a month ago, had still not been answered. She would be awkward, Tessa knew, stubborn and ungracious, declaring herself not the sort to attend a grand society wedding, and absolutely unconvinced that Tessa should marry Drew Greenwood anyway. She had said so a dozen times ever since Tessa had told her she was to wed her cousin.

  ‘He’s got thi on’t rebound, lass, an’ tha should ’ave sense enough ter know it. Tha was ter wed that other chap, tha said, then all of a sudden it were off . . . No, I want ter know nothing about it, lass, so don’t look at me like that. What ’appened is thy own affair an’ nowt ter do wi’ me,’ she declared, for Annie had a horror of seeming to interfere in another’s life at the same time fiercely defending her own privacy. But she could not resist giving her opinion, nevertheless, particularly when she firmly believed, as she did now, that Tessa was about to make a mistake. And she was not eager to put on her best bonnet, which was her only bonnet, and traipse over to the parish church of Crossfold and watch her make it.