Mary fluttered her hands in the air. “A governess, or a lady’s maid, or whatever is offered to me.”
By now he stood close to her again. “And if I were to offer you a position?”
Mary swallowed. There was no mistaking what he meant—she wouldn’t insult them both by asking if he had children for her to teach.
He reached his hand up and grasped her chin with his fingers. “Perhaps if we are creative we can think of several positions.”
Mary’s mouth opened wide in shock. Which, of course, is just the moment he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to hers.
She couldn’t do anything for a few seconds but stand there, in shock, as his lips made contact with hers. Her first thought was that his mouth was so warm, in such stark contrast to his cold words and expression.
And then his tongue licked her lips, a quick swipe that drew a gasp from her in response.
She remained stock still, not moving, not touching him anywhere but where their mouths were joined. A part of her knew she should be pushing him away, but she was frozen. And yet warm—so warm from him, his mouth, the body heat that was seeping into her skin.
And just as suddenly he pushed her from him so abruptly she stumbled, and he turned his head away.
But not before she saw the look of despair on his face.
“Go outside for a minute.” He spoke in a ragged whisper.
“Where?” Hadn’t he just said she had nowhere else to go? Or had their kiss befuddled him as much as it had her?
“Just leave!” he barked. “Wait outside until I call for you.”
When she didn’t move, he advanced toward her as if he would physically remove her. She turned and fled out the door, slamming it defiantly behind her.
Out in the hall she fumed at her lack of options. And his unnecessarily commanding tone. But what else should she have expected? Matthias had made her future inevitable. She had no money, no family, no future. Just a tiny thread of hope.
She rubbed her mouth where he’d kissed her. Her first kiss—at least the first one that had mattered. Not quite as she’d imagined it would be. She could not think about it.
As she had a million times since she’d discovered the truth, she clung to the thought of her mother, the woman she’d never known. Alive. In London. What did her mother look like? What did she know of her daughter?
If she could just get to London and locate her mother, she would find out. Mary’s future would be—what? Better than this, certainly. It had to be. The alternative was unthinkable.
She sagged against the door frame, her head pounding as she realized just what had happened in the past hour: she’d been drugged and sold at auction, and then she’d shared a bed with a man who wasn’t her husband, who had given her her first kiss before sending her into the hallway as if she were a misbehaving child.
It was hard enough discovering she was the illegitimate daughter of a vicar; being the homeless, penniless, illegitimate daughter of a vicar was almost enough to make her lose hope. Almost.
Mary smiled to herself as she realized the village’s nickname for her—“Merry Mary”—was being tested in perverse ways.
Her thoughts returned to the man on the other side of the door. Her master. “What is he doing in there?” she muttered to herself.
While she waited, her analytic brain cycled through the events of the last hour, the last week, the last month, until her head hurt. Or perhaps that was the aftereffect of whatever Matthias had given her. Just as she was starting to feel the rising pangs of panic, the door swung open and he stood there, one arm leaning arrogantly on the frame of the door. At least it seemed arrogant; she wasn’t sure if arms could be arrogant, but if they could, his definitely was.
“You’re still here.” Could he sound any more bored? And where else would she have gone? Back downstairs to those leering men? He, at least, was clean, and there was only one of him. “Come in,” he said.
He turned around and went back inside without waiting for her. She followed, kicking the door shut with her foot.
“Sit down.” He gestured toward the bed.
Mary made her way over to the small, rickety-looking chair in the corner and perched on it, tucking her feet under the rungs. She didn’t want to return to that bed—it reminded her of her shame. He shrugged and sat down on the mattress, placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward.
“Tell me. I can wait as long as you like. Trust me, I’ve nowhere to go.”
A spark of the spirit Matthias deplored flared up. She shrugged. “What do you want me to say? I’m a duke’s daughter on the run from a marriage with a lecherous old man? An heiress whose evil uncle has imprisoned her, and I’ve had a run of bad luck? I wish it were that simple.”
He paused for a long moment before speaking. “So how is it complicated?” His gaze, while still focused on her, was less intense than it had been before he’d shoved her out of the room; he had a slightly dreamy smile on his face, which was at odds with his previously autocratic mien. Although he was less intimidating than before, he also seemed—different. Odder.
Was he insane? It would explain why someone of his obvious station would be in a place like this. Why he’d kissed her so unexpectedly. And why no one was taking care of his collar.
He rose and walked over to her, reaching her before she could react. He knelt to the floor and lifted her gown. Mary pulled her feet up in response, but not quickly enough.
He slid his hand—his large, elegant hand—over her shin. She flinched where the bruise was. He glanced up at her, his verdant eyes intense.
“Who hit you?” His voice was soft. As though he cared. “Why are you here?”
Her mind scrambled through what she could tell him. Something close to the truth, but not quite—she could always tell when her charges out-and-out lied, but if they just obscured a few of the details, she was much less likely to figure it out.
Why she felt the need to lie to him was something else entirely.
She’d had enough of trusting men. Any men, no matter how beautiful they were, or how much they’d paid for her.
He still had his hand on her leg. It felt shockingly good, sending tiny sizzles up her spine.
Well,” she said, biting her lip, “my father was a vicar. He died a month ago.” Her throat tightened at the thought. “My brother ran up quite a lot of debt, so”—she spread her hands out, palms up—“I am here.”
Here because she had no choice. Matthias had made certain of that—her reputation was destroyed. Her only hope was to get to London. And there was no guarantee the woman who was her mother would want to have anything to do with her.
She longed to tell him everything, to confide the truth to someone, anyone, but she’d already said too much to her half brother. She couldn’t trust someone else so soon, not before she’d seen her mother for herself.
His lips thinned. He took his hand away. She felt the loss, the sudden chill where his skin had warmed hers. “You mean you and your brother decided the best way for him settle his accounts was to sell your virginity at auction?”
She suppressed a rueful smile. If by decided you mean that he threatened me until I agreed, then yes, decided would be the word.
“Yes.” It would not do to reveal the extent of her weakness. She knew he knew the truth, he had to, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to share it. To trust him.
Now his eyes were half-closed, and he looked as though he were about to fall asleep. What was happening? Mary wondered. Was he ill?
He rose, awkwardly, so different from the authoritative, powerful man who had marched her out of the pub just a few hours before. He flopped backward onto the bed. Mary leapt out of her chair to help him, but stopped short when he began to laugh. No, giggle. He sounded like the girls at church when the handsome vicar from the next parish came to preach.
He sighed and went silent. “You never said who hit you,” he murmured after a few minutes. His voice sounded like it was coming from far aw
ay. His eyelids dropped down over his eyes and she didn’t bother responding. He began to snore.
Shaking her head, Mary returned to her seat and folded her hands in her lap. She wasn’t quite sure what to do—he had bought her, and she couldn’t get anywhere without money.
And she was so tired. Of course that meant sleeping with him. In that bed. She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep on the floor, and honestly, after today, it wouldn’t matter. She was ruined. The damage was done, in all eyes but theirs. Also, he was still wearing his clothes, and she doubted he was in any shape to remove them even if he wanted to.
She rose and crept toward the bed. His eyes rolled frantically underneath the lids in the throes of a dream.
As she gazed down at him, it was hard to believe her nightmare had only started a month ago.
Why did her father have to confess everything on his deathbed? He’d held the secret for so long already. Would she truly wish to have remained ignorant of the truth, though?
If it meant not going through this, then, yes. “Sleep well,” Mary muttered as she nudged him over to one side. She lifted the sheet, trying not to think about its state of cleanliness, and got underneath, keeping her body at the absolute edge of the bed.
He rolled over and flung his arm over her, nestling his head in her neck. Mary felt a rush of yearning to be held like this forever: Even if this wasn’t hell, he was definitely the devil.
Tempting, sinful, and totally wrong.
Chapter 2
This time, the dream was softer. Warmer. Before, Alasdair had found himself in luxuriant gardens, redolent of flowers and populated by bizarre animals. Dragons and goblins would drift by above him, adding a faint edge of danger to the proceedings. The dream had always let him just watch, a spectator to his own hallucinations.
This time, he was involved. He was there. He was lying in grass so green it was blinding, a tall tree providing some shade from the lemon-yellow sun. There were no clouds. No dragons or goblins, either.
A woman was lying next to him, her head propped on her elbow. As he stared into her eyes, she drew one hand up slowly and pressed a strawberry into his mouth. His mouth opened, and he tasted the sweet, bursting berry. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of flavor, chewing and swallowing in perfect satisfaction.
Then she must’ve leaned forward—his eyes were still closed—because he felt her lips on his, her tongue licking at the sticky remains of the berry. He opened his mouth, and she slid her tongue inside, caressing him with the same intense concentration she’d given to the juice.
He raised his arms to touch her, but she pinned them down with her hands, sliding her body on top of his. She chuckled in his mouth, and then raised her head. He opened his eyes, and staring back at him was a stranger. She was an old crone, a witchlike woman with craggy skin, broken teeth, and yellow eyes. Tiny blue bugs crawled out of her nose.
He tried to scream, but nothing came out. He couldn’t move. Her weight pinned him to the grass, and she leaned forward again, licking her lips. One of the bugs began to drop onto his face.
“Aargh!” He heard the shout before realizing it came from his own lungs. He sat up, hitting something hard that thudded to the floor.
He clutched his hand to his chest. By rights, his heart should be pounding, but the drug slowed him down all over: his breathing, his reactions, his pain.
His heart beat steadily, slowly, under his palm. Now that he was awake, he felt the same slow welcome fog envelop his brain, making it hard to feel.
Except—he felt a twinge of something he never had before. He began to recall what had happened—not the earlier memories, those he was determined to keep away—but in the past few hours.
Damn. He’d had to play the knight, hadn’t he? An ignoble, ignominious, and otherwise incapable knight, but a knight all the same.
And where the hell was she?
He glanced blearily around the room. The moon threw shadows enough so that he could tell no one was there.
He heard a scuffling on the floor and pulled his body over to the edge of the bed.
Her pale face shone like a beacon below him, her hair tangled about her shoulders.
He held his hand out to her and after a moment she took it.
She accepted his hand gingerly, as though she were far from sure he wouldn’t toss her down on the floor again. She’d probably choose to stay down there if she knew what he really wanted. What he’d been thinking of doing to her when they were lying here together before.
***
His grip was surprisingly strong as he pulled her up, and Mary rose in one swift motion to sit back on the bed. He settled down beside her and stretched his long legs in front of him. He ran his hands across his face, then turned to look at her.
His eyes were two black pools in the darkness. “I—I had a nightmare.” He held her gaze. He didn’t apologize.
“Do the nightmares happen often?” A black lock of hair had fallen onto his forehead, and Mary’s fingers itched to stroke it back. But he wasn’t one of her pupils.
She saw one corner of his mouth lift up in what might have been a rueful smile. “More than they should.” He propped his pillow behind his head and raised an eyebrow at her. “Have you slept here all night?”
She nodded. “It’s not like I had anywhere else to go, Mr.—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I don’t even know your name!”
He extended his hand. “Alasdair Thornham, Marquess of Datchworth. And your name is—Mary something, am I right?”
Mary knew her mouth had dropped open stupidly, but honestly, what did he expect? Noblemen didn’t trot around the countryside purchasing women in squalid taverns. At least none that she’d ever heard of.
Of course, his being a lord could explain why he was so strange. She’d never met a member of the peerage before; maybe they all acted like this.
“It’s Mary Smith,” she said, taking his hand in hers. She held it for a second, still dumbfounded, until his other eyebrow rose up to meet the first. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said hastily, just as if they were meeting at Mrs. Flitchett’s house for tea, rather than after spending the night sharing a bed. His hand was clammy, and she dropped it, trying to wipe it on the sheet without his noticing. As if polite niceties mattered anymore, she chided herself.
“Well, Mary Smith,” he said, “what are we to do?”
“Do?” she repeated stupidly.
“Yes, do.” His tone was impatient. Right, he was a nobleman, probably nobody ever questioned him. “About this.” He spread his arms in a wide gesture. “You haven’t run away yet, so you must have no choice but to be here with me. So what are we to do?” he repeated, even more impatiently.
“As I said, my lord, I can go away, if that is your preference. Perhaps you could see your way to lending me …?”
She was amazed at her own audacity. Her father had frequently preached about courage, but she’d never had occasion before to summon it so completely.
“No.” His voice was just as emphatic as it had been the previous evening.
“But …” She dropped her hands to her lap in exasperation.
Another few pounds on top of the five he’d spent, and she would be no more than a bothersome memory. She knew enough about the aristocracy to know that even if he were poor, that was relatively little—he could find money somewhere to give her. Why wouldn’t he? “I could leave at first light,” she added.
“You are growing tiresome, Miss Smith. I said no.”
Mary straightened herself and glared at him. The moon threw enough light that he had to be able to see her expression. So be it. He should understand that even though he’d bought her, he didn’t own her. “Tiresome is when the squire’s wife has told the same story at every social gathering, and expects you to marvel at her cleverness each time. Tiresome is realizing your father has misplaced his sermon notes again. Tiresome is not, my lord, when a woman has been bought by a marquess who habituates low places w
here a woman might be sold.”
He flung his head back to laugh, then winced as it slammed against the wall. “Ouch.” He rubbed his head. “Excellent point.”
He rolled over her to get off the bed. He moved so fast she didn’t have time to react; all she could do was absorb the feeling of his body on hers for a moment—hard, warm, heavy.
She didn’t think about how good it felt. Did she?
“We’re where—Alnwick?”
She nodded. He didn’t even know where he was?
“If I let you go—” He glanced at Mary’s face and twisted his lips in thought. “The torture of a bad conscience is the hell of a living soul,” he said quietly. It surprised her, his knowledge of John Calvin. Mary’s father quoted him frequently in his sermons, but she hardly expected it from someone like this marquess.
Of course, given that she’d just met him, she didn’t know why she had an opinion about what he might or might not know.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Alnwick is about thirty miles from Scotland. We’ll go there, get married, and head to London.”
London! He would take her to London! And … “Wait! Married?” she asked.
“Married.” It sounded like a death sentence. “You’re clearly a lady, and I am supposed to be a gentleman,” he said, a cynical look on his face. “Marriage is what is required when a man and a woman have spent the night alone together.”
Mary got off the bed, too, and turned away from his handsome face and high-handed manner. For a second, her heart had lifted. Could her problems be so easily solved?
But her father’s gentle voice of admonishment spoke in her head. It wasn’t right. “Marriage is not possible, my lord.”
“Why not? Are you married already?” He sounded bored. “Will your husband be hammering on the door, demanding satisfaction?”
“No, of course not,” Mary replied. She twisted her hands together in her skirt. “You, my lord, are a lord. Obviously,” she added, when she heard him chuckle.
“And I …” Her mind raced at the thought of it. Why couldn’t she marry him? And leave him as soon as she reached London?
Megan Frampton Page 2