She nodded once. “I’m fine,” she mouthed.
Gulping loudly, Squire Chernow released her, and Martha hurried away from him. “You’ve no—” Whatever brave response he’d found the courage to utter ended on a squeak.
Graham surged forward and caught the squire by the wrist, the same hand he’d had on Martha moments ago. With a vicious ferocity, Graham wrenched it up. “If you ever touch her, speak her name, or even look at her or her son, I will end you,” he whispered.
Squire Chernow cried out, “Please. She wanted it. You are new to the village and do not know, but she is a whore.”
Graham spun the older man around and buried his fist in his face. There was a sharp crack as cartilage gave way to that punishing fist. He continued to pummel the squire in a raw, violent display.
Martha clutched at her throat. “Graham,” she called out, but he ignored the attempt to stay him.
The squire crumpled into a noisy, blubbering heap. Blood spurted from between his fingers. “My God, I’m d-dying,” he rasped.
“Your damned nose is broken, you coward,” Graham spat and then dragged the squire to his feet and hauled him over to the door. “Let this be the last time you threaten Miss Donaldson, or you can be sure I’ll see you pay.”
With that, he yanked the door open and tossed the squire out on his buttocks.
A moment later, Graham closed that panel, and a peculiar hum of silence rang in the room.
Her mind sought to muddle through the most important details. But she could settle on only one fact. “You’re here,” she whispered.
“I’m here.” Graham stalked over and then stopped, as if afraid to touch her. “Did he hurt you?” he asked, his voice hoarse with something she’d never heard from this strong, unshakeable man: fear. For me.
And the horror of the squire’s assault receded. “No, I…”
Graham collected her wrist, his grip tender where the squire’s had been punishing. He dusted his knuckle over the imprint left by Squire Chernow’s thumb, the crimson mark vivid upon her pale skin.
“I should have killed him,” he whispered.
He cared that much… for her? “No. You shouldn’t have, Graham.” She’d not have any man’s blood on Graham’s hands. Not for her.
“Fine, then I should have thrashed him until he was senseless.” Graham carried her wrist close to his mouth and placed his lips upon that mark.
Butterflies fluttered in her chest, a swarm set free by his caress. “I thought you’d left,” she whispered as he continued to worship her wrist. She made herself say the rest. “Because of what I revealed.”
He stopped the delicate back-and-forth caress, and as he let her arm down gently to her side, she wanted to cry out at the loss. To ask him to not stop.
“You think I would leave because of that?” he murmured, tucking her loose curls behind her ears. “Is your opinion of me so low?”
“Never you.” Her opinion was low… of herself. Martha studied the tips of her boots intently, but Graham gently, determinedly guided her gaze up.
The raw intensity in those piercing sapphire eyes sucked the breath from her lungs.
“I could never… would never blame you for the crimes of some bounder like Waters. Or any man, Martha. What he did to you? And your son? Those were testaments to his character, or rather, lack of. Not yours.”
Her lower lip trembled, and she caught it between her teeth. “Thank—” He glared the words of gratitude from her lips. “I’ve never had anyone who has come to my defense.” She glanced beyond his shoulder to the place where Viscount Waters had first sat when he’d visited, a guest. “Never my husband.” She grimaced. “He was free with his fists. My father even saw him strike me, but… never intervened. He didn’t know what to do, and so? He looked the other way.”
A tortured groan reverberated around the room.
It took her a moment to realize it belonged to another.
Graham’s face was a mask carved in agony and fury.
In that instant, she fell in love with him. This man who was a stranger nearly two weeks ago, who was as free with his smiles and guidance for a boy and his support of her, and also who had restraint.
Martha drifted closer to him. “But you defended me, Graham,” she said softly, laying her palms against his chest. His heart hammered wildly under her fingers, and she savored that steady beat. “When anyone else before you has said I wasn’t worthy, you’ve helped me see otherwise, and I will be eternally grateful for that gift.”
His throat muscles moved, and she leaned up on tiptoe, wanting to know the beauty of his touch again. Needing to claim another moment in his arms because of her want and need for this man.
Graham dipped his head, and then, his mouth moving as if in silent prayer, he backed away from her.
The door burst open, and this time, Frederick came pouring through the entrance. “He’s returned! Oh,” he blurted, looking at Graham. “You know, then.”
Martha coughed into her hand. “Yes. I… know.” What else was she to say in that instant?
Graham started over to her son. “Why don’t we go muck out the remainder of the stalls?”
He might as well have handed her son the moon and stars. Frederick grinned, a slightly gap-toothed smile. The pair took their leave, with Graham pausing in the doorway to cast her one last look.
As soon as he’d shut the door behind them, she gathered her sketch pad and charcoal. And this time, she allowed herself to create. She let her fingers dance over the pages as the errant laughter, the cherished sound of her son’s laughter, drifted in from the stable yard.
Until she’d finished.
Graham’s visage stared back. Graham as he’d been when he’d come upon her in the copse, an honorable man whose intentions she’d feared. Who’d sought little and offered everything.
And yet… she frowned as the unwanted thoughts she’d not allowed herself to consider slipped forward.
Where had Graham gone this morning? Of course, it had been his half day, and he’d every right to leave. But he’d taken his belongings. How did one account for that peculiarity?
As she set to work sketching another piece, she could not rid herself of the unwanted niggling that deep down she didn’t want to know the reason.
Chapter 15
His knuckles cracked and bloodied from his earlier thrashing of Squire Chernow, Graham should have been in some pain. Instead, the materials he’d set upon the kitchen table to tend his injuries sat forgotten as he replayed that moment in his mind.
That old, vile lecher, with his wandering hands and vile words about Martha dripping from his thin lips.
And now ten hours after he’d thrown the bastard out on his arse, all Graham felt was the same palpable rage he had had when he’d entered the cottage. It burned through him now as intensely as it had when he’d come upon that bastard.
And he wanted to beat him bloody and senseless all over again.
But this tumult that raged inside was not solely for the lecher, but rather, for what the incident meant. He’d leave, and Martha would be on her own. There’d be no one to challenge the bounders who made her indecent offers. Nay, more than that. Graham wanted to be the one who challenged them. Who defended her honor, as she deserved.
Graham stiffened, feeling her presence before he heard her. As if he’d conjured her from his need to see her and talk to her.
Hovering in the doorway, Martha rapped lightly on the doorjamb. “May I… join you?”
He shoved to his feet. “Of course.”
“When you do you that, Graham, you make me feel like we’re playing at lord and lady,” she teased, shoving the sleeves of her night wrapper up to her elbows.
“You are a lady.” And by nature of his birth, he was a lord. He had to force himself to meet her eyes, lest she look close enough and see all the lies between them.
“Because I was almost a viscountess? Hardly. You heard Squire Chernow. I’m a whore.” She spoke so casually.
He balled his hands. “Don’t say that.”
“But I am. An accidental one,” she said, lifting a finger at his nose. “But a whore all the same. Sit.” Martha assessed his medical supplies.
“You’re wrong,” he said, ignoring her urging.
“And you are arrogant in your convictions.”
“I’m right in them,” he said flatly. “You’re not a whore, because you were wronged. You were a woman who trusted and was betrayed in the cruelest way. You are a woman who emerged from that stronger, unbroken by life. That”—he matched her earlier movement, lifting a finger close to her freckled nose—“makes you more worthy than any woman I’ve ever known.”
Her eyes went soft, those aquamarine pools beckoning, and he was so very content to lose himself in their depths. “Here,” Martha murmured, sliding onto the bench. She patted the spot beside her. “Sit,” she repeated.
“I have it,” he assured, but she frowned, taking his palm in hers anyway.
“Oh, hush,” she chided. “It is only fair.” She smiled up at him. “You, after all, cared for me.” She cradled his injured hand with such tenderness, and yet, there was a realness to her grip. Her skin was callused and rough from her work, and different from that of the pampered, privileged ladies who’d have never managed to survive as Martha had. Dragging the bowl over, she gently dipped his hand into the warmed water. “It is important to see that wounds are cleaned.”
“An interesting bit of knowledge you have there, Miss Donaldson.”
When she glanced up, there was a twinkle in her eyes. “I had a very skilled instructor.”
“Did you?” he teased in return.
“Oh, yes,” she said with a forced solemnity. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “If a bit arrogant.”
“Arrogant, was he?” he drawled, tickling her side until he’d pulled a squeal of laughter from her.
Then the mirth died in her eyes, and he wanted to bring it back. Wanted to see her as she’d been moments ago and throwing snowballs days earlier, with her gaze filled with joy and levity. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said quietly, not pretending to misunderstand. “Not for that.”
“I do. No one has defended me. And if you hadn’t been there…” The squire would have raped her.
The metallic tinge of fear filled his mouth. For what would happen to her when he was gone? The Brethren would now see her watched over, but she would still be a woman on her own, prey for any scoundrel who believed a woman was his for the taking, whether she wished it or not.
She smiled again. “But you were there.” Martha must have seen something in his eyes. “What?”
He shook his head. Just say the damned words. In the end, she proved more intuitive than he was brave.
“You’re leaving.”
Graham hesitated a moment and then nodded once. “I’ve secured a position as stable master.”
She wet her lips. “I… see.” Silently, Martha resumed caring for his bruised knuckles.
What exactly did she see? He needed to know when he couldn’t see anything with any real clarity anymore. Not since he’d come here.
“When do you leave?” She directed the question to the bowl of water. Squeezing the excess water out of the cloth, she took his hand from the bowl and wiped away the crusted remnants of blood.
“Three… two days,” he amended. He was nearly out of time with her and Frederick.
“Is that where you went this morning?”
He managed a nod. For his visit with Lord Edward had yielded an end to this post and the eventual beginning of another.
This time, she didn’t say anything. Dropping the damp cloth, she reached for a clean scrap and proceeded to dry his fingers. “It is… odd,” she murmured as she wiped the water from him. “I feel like I know so much about you, and I’ll… miss y-you.” Her voice broke, cracking free another piece of his heart. She drew a breath in through her teeth, and a sheen of tears filled her eyes. Martha brushed the back of her arm over them, wiping at the drops.
“Martha,” he whispered, reaching for her. This was killing him, shredding the rest of his heart.
She quickly stood and stepped away from him, and he mourned the loss. She’d retreated. It was a strategy of self-preservation he well knew, but had somehow managed to forget around this woman.
“Do not worry about us, please.” A pained half laugh spilled from her lips. “And to think nearly two weeks ago, I didn’t want you anywhere near my property.” Her voice faded to a barely there whisper. “And now I can’t imagine you not being here.” The life seemed to drain from her, and she slid onto the bench beside him once more. “I’ve always been rubbish at goodbyes. I hate them so very much.” She wiped at her nose, and Graham fished out a kerchief, handing it over.
Martha plucked it from his fingers and lightly blew into it. “The only person I was always happy to see leave was my husband. Each day he went, I gave thanks to the Lord and prayed he’d never return.”
And if Viscount Waters hadn’t already been dead, Graham would have gladly murdered the bastard with his bare hands and then happily sent his rotted soul on to hell where he was even now burning.
“But aside from him, I’ve just always hated goodbyes. There is a permanency to them.”
And there was a permanency to this one. When he was gone from this place, he’d never again see her. Their only link would be the one through the Home Office, which she was unaware of, one that he wouldn’t have a reason or right to press for further information.
Martha fiddled with the fabric in her hands, crumpling the white linen into a little ball and then straightening it.
He froze. The embroidered initials of his name, threaded in sapphire, disappeared and reappeared in a damning kaleidoscope. SGMW. SGMW.
Martha set the kerchief down and curled her fingers on her lap.
Swiftly retrieving the rumpled, damning cloth, he stuffed it into his jacket front and spun on the bench so they sat side by side in a like repose.
“I don’t remember anything about my mother. The only memory I still have of her is the day I said goodbye. I remember standing at her bedside and thinking, if I just left, I wouldn’t have to say goodbye. I was angry with my father, blaming him for making me say goodbye, believing that was why she left… and so I never said that word to anyone in parting again. I fared them well and gave them my best, but never my goodbye.”
“I hate the word, too,” he said softly, startled by the truth of that. He’d not allowed himself to think on it. “They were the last words I spoke to my brother.”
Where had that revelation came from? He shared nothing about Lawrence with anybody.
Martha twined her fingers with his, interlocking their digits in a joining that eased some of the pain that would always be there. “I spoke them in jest. I taunted him. We were always competing, and we were racing that day. I allowed him to believe he was winning.” Because that was what his family had always expected. That Graham would finish last. “And then I surged ahead. I looked over my shoulder and shouted goodbye. Lawrence urged his horse into a reckless gallop, and the mount came up lame. Threw him.”
He pressed his eyes closed. His and Heath’s screams had rolled together, deafening, as Lawrence had lain there, eternally silent, his neck bent at an impossible angle.
Martha rested her head against his shoulder, and he took the support she proffered. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was, though,” he said simply. He knew that now. “My father never forgave me, and with good reason.”
“There was nothing to forgive. It was an accident. A horrible twist of fate that saw him fall.”
He shook his head before remembering she wasn’t looking at him. “It was me being reckless, attempting to prove my worth.”
“I married a man because I sought a life outside of High Town. Do you hold me to blame for my circumstances?”
He blanched. “Of course not.” His neck w
ent hot as her meaning became clear.
Martha tapped the tip of his nose. “And yet, you’d hold yourself responsible for a chance accident.”
“It’s not at all the same.”
“No,” she countered, shaking her head. “It is not exactly the same, but neither did you or I intend for the outcomes we met that day.”
All these years, he’d spent hating himself. Unable to look at himself without seeing his brother’s death reflected back in his visage. Only to have this woman, not very long ago, a stranger, hold forth an absolution. Her words of forgiveness washed over him.
“Martha, I…”
When he paused, she peered up at him. “Yes?”
I want to remain with you. He wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. He needed more time with her. And Frederick.
“I will miss you,” he said quietly, bringing her hand to his mouth. He pressed a light kiss against the inseam of her wrist. “And I’ll miss Frederick.”
Her lower lip quivered. “I’ll… We will miss you, too. I’d… ask you something before you go.”
“Anything,” he vowed.
Martha wet her lips. “Will you make love to me?”
*
Martha’s heart pounded.
Where had that query come from?
Nay, Martha knew precisely where it had come from—a place of longing and desire and need to know Graham Malin and the pleasure he’d helped prove she was capable of.
Rather, where had she found the courage to form that utterance?
“Martha.” Her name was an entreaty. “I cannot…”
“Because you are leaving?” She lifted her chin and dared him with her gaze to speak the truth. “Or because you don’t want me.”
“Of course I want you. I’ve never wanted anyone more.”
Catching his uninjured hand, Martha drew it to her breast. “Then make love to me,” she said softly.
The Rogue Who Rescued Her Page 17