More carriages were arriving in the lane, bearing the servants he had brought from London.
That was when he realized there was no groomsman.
The stables appeared deserted. Not a horse or a human to be found.
Alessandro had a sinking, desperate feeling he would not even find his steward to deliver upon him the beating he so soundly deserved. It would appear the bastard had not just deceived him but also robbed him with the proficiency of a cutthroat pirate.
“Alessandro.”
Somehow, Catriona’s dulcet voice cut through his wild musings. He jerked his attention back to her.
“Lady Rayne,” he said formally, for there were servants all about them. “Welcome to Marchmont.”
And what a welcome it was. Thank Cristo he had been cautious enough to bring a good number of domestics from Town. It had been some time since he had been forced to think of households, servants, and travel. His every day had been concerned with warfare, troop movements, and attacks on invading enemy soldiers. Strange how easily his old life returned to him.
Even though it had never felt right, and even though he had never felt as if he belonged here, it was still what he knew. Still in his blood. He carried the obligation of his birth. His mother had adored Marchmont. So had he, as a lad. Before his mother had died.
Before everything had changed.
“Marchmont is beautiful,” his new wife said then. “But it seems to be rather closed up. Did you not send word, Rayne?”
“Oh, I sent word,” he gritted. And he suspected that was the reason Marchmont had been vacated. “Await me here, if you please.”
Without waiting for her response, he strode away from her, his boots crunching on the gravel of the drive, then echoing on the limestone stairs flanking the double doors beneath the portico. He took them two at a time, reached the front portal, and rapped angrily.
Predictably, no one answered.
He rapped again.
Sound reached him. Footsteps on the marble in the entry hall. So small they were almost soundless. The door opened a crack. One eye appeared, situated somehow within the face of what appeared to be a grimy urchin.
“Who goes there?” the creature rasped.
Dios.
“The Earl of Rayne,” he bit out. “The owner of this home.”
The eye scowled. “The mad earl be abroad.”
“The earl is standing before you, diablillo, and he is not mad. Now let me pass.” He said the last with as much kindness as he could muster.
“No.”
The door slammed shut.
Alessandro stared at it, disbelief coursing through him, along with impotent fury. He had spent the past two days hauling his wife and a small army of servants through the countryside, only to arrive in Wiltshire, weary and prepared for his dinner, to find he had a miniature squatter.
He knocked again.
Once more, the portal opened. This time, two eyes and a scowl on a distinctly dirty, childlike face greeted him. “Oh, devil. You isn’t the mad earl is you?”
“Yes, I am,” he growled. “And if you know what is best for you, you will open the door and let me pass. Where are the domestics? Where is Bramwell?”
“Bramwell is gone. Left with Mrs. Fitzpatrick and half the paintings. I don’t expect either of them to return any time soon.” The urchin stepped back, pulling the portal with him. “I am the only one here, m’lord.”
Half the paintings. Though he had few fond remembrances of his sire, the portrait galleries he had cultivated at Marchmont had been tremendous.
He stared down at the grimy child before him. “Precisely who are you?”
The lad, who could be no more than eight or nine years of age, squinted. “Olly’s the name.”
“Well, Olly,” he said grimly, “I believe you and I have a great deal to chat about.”
Nothing about this trip to his ancestral home was turning out as he had thought it would. But then again, nothing about his marriage to Catriona was either.
Chapter Sixteen
To say Catriona had settled into her apartment at Marchmont would have been a prevarication of the first order. There was no settling to be done. The house and grounds were nothing short of a disaster. She and the servants who had traveled with them from London had taken an inventory while Alessandro went to the village in search of more servants.
A quick tour of the interior had revealed a fire had ravaged one of the wings and yet no attempt to repair the damages had been made. Furniture was in a state of disarray, some bearing no dust covers, chairs haphazardly stacked in the gallery, bedchambers laden with dust, the slate roof leaking, plasterwork ruined. The walls of the gallery were distressingly bare, having been relieved of their treasures by Alessandro’s scheming steward.
A man who, if the dirty little scamp inhabiting the home was to be believed, had fled three days ago with his mistress and as much loot as he could carry, fearing the impending arrival of his master. Leaving behind the scamp, who was his ward.
“What a dreadful rotter, abandoning an innocent child whose wellbeing had been entrusted to him, stealing from a man who trusted him,” Catriona muttered to herself as she stood on a chair and hung a freshly aired set of window dressings.
“Who is a dreadful rotter?”
The sudden voice of her husband at her back gave Catriona such a start, she jumped, lost her balance, and fell from her tenuous perch on the chair. Backwards she went, until a pair of strong arms enfolded her, dragging her into his hard chest before she could land.
She clutched at his hands where they rested upon her waist, delighted to find them bare. “Oh, Alessandro,” she said, breathless. “You gave me a fright.”
He buried his face in her hair, inhaling, still holding her. “Apologies, querida. Why are you doing a maid’s labor, toppling from chairs?”
“I am helping where needed,” she said simply.
Was it wrong of her to take comfort in the warm presence of him at her back? To revel in the way he seemed to take joy in breathing in her scent?
“You are the mistress of this house,” he returned, pressing a kiss to her crown. “It is not your duty to be climbing upon furniture and hanging window dressings.”
She eyed her handiwork, trying not to think too much of his small show of affection. Likely, he did not even realize what he was doing. “I do not mind. The house is in dreadful need of as many spare hands as it can get. All the better if some of them shall be mine.”
“I have hired a gaggle of servants to sweep in and help to repair the worst of it.” He sighed into her hair, ruffling the tendrils which had come loose from her chignon in her efforts. “And not a moment too soon, it would seem. I am afraid to leave your side for fear when I return, you shall be playing the part of chimney sweep.”
For a moment, she could almost believe they were an ordinary husband and wife, melting into each other after an arduous day of travel. “I dare say I would not fit, or I would try,” she teased, spinning about in his arms to face him.
Her palms lay flat against his chest, her right hand over the steady thumps of his heart. A frisson of awareness seared a path straight through her, in spite of her weariness and in spite of the unusual circumstances in which they now found themselves mired.
“I have no doubt you would.” His countenance was serious, his gaze penetrating. “I am sorry to have brought you here. If I had possessed an inkling of just how treacherous that lying worm was…”
His words trailed off.
“What would you have done, Alessandro?” she asked. “Returned from Spain?”
“Cristo.” His arms were still draped loosely around her waist, holding her to him. “I do not know.”
“I am amazed your sister and step-mother did not visit here whilst you were gone and discover the depth of your steward’s deceptions,” she said.
He shook his head. “My sister suffered an accident here in her youth, falling from the bannister. It is the reason for her
limp, and it is also the reason why she did not wish to visit. The memories were too painful. Bramwell knew it, and he knew he could go unchecked by me, the bastardo.”
“What will you do now?” That was the more pressing question, as far as she was concerned. They had only just skimmed the surface of the damage which had been done at Marchmont over the past few years of Alessandro’s absence.
“Fix it, as I must. I am not a man who takes his duties lightly, Catriona.” He shocked her then by caressing her cheek so tenderly, her heart gave a pang. “The eastern wing will need rebuilding. I must comb over what ledgers I can find, speak with my tenants, the farmers. There is much to be done.”
“Yes, there is,” she agreed, her mind instantly flitting to her own obligations as the mistress of the household. “Thank heavens we have the best of the London staff with us. The beds have been treated to fresh linen. Every surface is being scoured and wiped clean as I suspect has not been done for some years.”
“Gracias, querida,” he said, kissing her forehead with a reverence that stole her breath.
In the aftermath of their arrival, the tension between them in the carriage had dissipated. They had come together. And that same odd closeness lingered now. Not a pax, precisely. But an understanding of sorts. They needed each other.
She knew she must not allow it to undermine her plan.
And yet, in his arms, extricating herself seemed almost impossible.
“You need not thank me,” she said softly. Sincerely. “I am your wife now, Alessandro. And neither am I a woman who takes her duties lightly. We will have Marchmont returned to its glory in no time.”
They stared at each other.
She became acutely aware of his heat searing her, his height, the muscled strength of his lean body, his scent enveloping her. Was it her imagination, or was his heart beating faster beneath her touch? Her lips parted, longing overwhelming her.
She wanted his kiss.
On her mouth.
Oh, how she wanted it.
A knock came at the chamber door. They pulled apart as if they were two unwed lovers being caught in a clandestine embrace. Reality returned to her in a swift, bitter rush, reminding her they were not lovers helplessly in each other’s thrall. They were husband and wife out of necessity.
Her husband did not love her.
He could not even bring himself to kiss her lips.
Straightening her skirts and brushing a stray tendril of hair from her face, she turned to the door. “You may enter.”
The door opened to reveal her lady’s maid, Sadler. Her gaze instantly darted back and forth between Catriona and Alessandro. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, my lady, my lord. I did not mean to intrude. I was going to see about unpacking the rest of your trunks, my lady.”
There is nothing to intrude upon, Catriona thought grimly.
Instead, she smiled at the domestic. “No need to beg anyone’s pardon, Sadler. His lordship was just informing me of all the wondrous help we shall have invading these halls tomorrow.”
“That will be most excellent, my lady, my lord.” Sadler smiled back, her expression still hesitant.
She could not blame her lady’s maid, for Catriona was not accustomed to her husband’s presence in her chamber either. She hoped he planned to visit frequently, embraces included. She flicked a glance back at her husband, who showed no indication of leaving. He was yet gazing upon her, his countenance unreadable.
When he looked at her like that, she forgot to breathe.
How vexing he was, hot and then cold, pulling her in and then pushing her away.
“Will you walk with me, my lady?” he asked suddenly, startling her when he offered her his arm.
She eyed him, not trusting her resolve. Not trusting him.
“Where do you intend to go this late in the evening?” she asked.
“To the gardens,” he answered enigmatically. “You will not regret it. I promise.”
She was sure she would.
But she took his arm, casting a glance back at her maid. “Sadler, I—”
“Do not wait up for her ladyship,” Alessandro interrupted. “When you finish your unpacking, you may settle yourself for the evening.”
“Of course, my lord.” Sadler dipped into a curtsy.
Catriona allowed him to whisk her from the chamber, wondering precisely what her husband was about. But then, she realized it did not matter.
For she would follow him anywhere.
*
Alessandro led Catriona through an overgrown gravel path. The late summer sun had long since settled, leaving the moon high overhead to bathe the landscape in a silver glow.
His abbreviated inspection of the immediate grounds of Marchmont earlier had revealed once pristine gardens dreadfully overrun. Even the path on which they traversed now was in desperate need of attention. Laurels and trees crowded them on either side, in some places narrowing the pathway enough so it was almost closed entirely.
“You do realize it is dark, do you not?” his wife grumbled at his side.
“Is it?” He feigned shock. “I thought the sun was a trifle dim this evening.”
His lightheartedness appeared to surprise her, for she was silent. It surprised him as well, in truth. He had believed returning to Marchmont at long last would bring with it the bitterness that infected him whenever he thought of England. He had thought it would be strange and unfamiliar, that it would leave him with the same unwanted sense of obligation that weighed down his chest whenever he thought of the earldom and the entail.
But strangely, it had not. His initial discovery of his steward’s duplicity and the ravages the home and grounds had suffered had infuriated him. Gradually, however, the rage had been replaced with something else.
As he rode into the village in search of decent men and women to employ, a barrage of reminiscences had settled over him. His mother had been happy here, and so, too, had he, a lifetime ago. He recalled the old mossed oak he had climbed in his youth. Fishing in the river. Hiding from his governess in the temple of Artemis, which overlooked the rolling park grounds and lake.
“Where are you taking me?” Catriona demanded now.
“It is a surprise,” he said easily, breathing in deeply the lush scent of the countryside. London, with its soot and fog and its crowded streets, was a far cry from where they were now. He had not known how much he had missed this rich smell of summer, of grasses and flowers in bloom, of life at its fullest blossom.
She huffed a little sigh he was certain had more to do with his refusal to reveal to her their destination than it had to do with aught else. “I am tired after a long day of travel and attempting to restore Marchmont into some semblance of a home once more. And that is to say nothing of the battle I waged with our resident ragamuffin.”
“I know the day has been long, and I appreciate your efforts and patience.” As they continued their stroll, he rested his hand over hers where it lay in the crook of his arm. “I am grateful. But what is this about the squatter? I ought to have taken the little devil back to the village with me. Was he giving you trouble?”
What a strange creature. Scarcely more than a grimy face, two bright, blue eyes, and greasy brown hair stuffed beneath a cap. Short legs encased in dirty breeches. After losing Francisco, children had oft filled him with a sense of dread, as if the sight of them alone would cause him to be swallowed by the voracious maw of grief perpetually waiting to claim him.
Strangely, this one did not. This one filled him with consternation.
“Oh, you must not send him back to the village,” his wife said then in her sweet, dulcet voice that never failed to make his cock twitch to attention. “He has already been abandoned by his greedy villain of a guardian. I shudder to think what will become of him if he does not stay at Marchmont with us.”
The way she said us should not affect him.
But it did.
Even so, he would not allow the beggar to remain. “He must go to the village.
He is not our burden to bear.”
“He is a child,” Catriona admonished. “And a hungry one at that. We are fortunate indeed Monsieur Olivier brought plentiful stores with him. The lad initially refused to eat a bite, clinging to his pride. He was destined to lose any battle of stubbornness against me, however.”
The notion of his wife battling with the dirty imp touched a place inside him he had not known existed. He wished he could have seen it. “How did you defeat him?”
“I told him his pet mouse would be fed to my cat if he did not eat,” she said, her tone ringing with pride.
What the devil?
“Do you mean to tell me the squatter is keeping a rodent as his pet? And still you wish for this squalid little ragamuffin to remain?” He paused, warming to his cause before something else occurred to him. “You do not have a cat.”
She laughed softly, and the sound sent heat licking through him, settling in his groin. Why must he like every part of her so much? Too much?
“Olly has not yet discovered I do not have a cat,” she confided. “Do not tell him, if you please. I cannot imagine how I shall convince the rascal to break his fast and have a bath without the threat that Ashes will meet a bloody end by my feline’s ravenous jaws.”
“Why should we care if the rascal eats his kippers and eggs or not?” Alessandro returned. “And what sort of creature names a mouse Ashes?”
“A child who has been mistreated and ignored. A child who was so desperately in need of companionship, he befriended a rodent,” she said softly, breathlessly. “I am quite resolute in my determination to keep Olly with us for the time being. And you must cease calling him the squatter. He has a name.”
“Yes,” he said peevishly. “Olly. But I have already told you, madam, I do not like children.”
“I will make sure Olly stays out of your way. Since your time here will be short, we need not fear doing so should prove unusually onerous.” There was a hint of censure in her voice.
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