What if she really had no choice but to stay with the marquess?
“Miss Smith,” he said, interrupting her churning thoughts, “that unpleasant man who was attempting to take you away—that was your brother, is that what you told me?”
“Half brother,” she corrected automatically.
“Half brother. Tell me again why he auctioned you.”
“He had some debts, and since our father died …” She felt her throat begin to thicken, and she pinched herself so she wouldn’t burst into tears. The sharp, quick pain made her wince. “Since our father died,” she repeated in a stronger voice, “Matthias has been spending his inheritance at the gambling table, and he is not lucky. You would probably say clearly he is not, since I am his sister.”
“Half sister,” he replied, casting her a quick, amused glance.
She pursed her lips. “He drinks. A lot. And when he is drinking, he is capable of anything.”
The memories surged, and she winced, even though Matthias hadn’t struck her since before the auction.
She did not want to talk about that. Not at all, especially not to him.
“Tell me about yourself, my lord. Where are you from?” She tried to inject as much innocence into her voice as possible.
He lifted one hand from the reins and waved it dismissively. “London. The country. Wherever you want.”
“That is not a satisfactory answer,” she replied, folding her hands in her lap. She was propelled into him as he suddenly tugged on the reins and stopped the horses dead in their tracks. “What did you do that for?” she asked, pushing off his shoulder to regain her seat.
He shifted in his seat to face her. She blinked at the sudden anger in his eyes. “Tell me, Miss Smith, are you this condescending to everyone who saves your delectable hide?”
“What?” She gazed at him in astonishment. And frowned when the truth hit her. He was right; she had been rude.
After all, he hadn’t ravished her the previous night, it appeared he had every intention of marrying her, and being with him was definitely better than being with Matthias.
She tried not to dwell on the fact he’d called her hide “delectable.”
She lowered her eyes. She saw that his hands were shaking. “I apologize, my lord.” Her own hands clasped and unclasped in her skirt. He reached over and stilled them, holding his large, elegant hand easily over both of hers.
His skin was clammy, even though the air was chill. “I know you think I am out of my wits, Miss Smith, but I promise you I know exactly what I am doing. Exactly,” he repeated, a grim tone entering his voice. He removed his hand and clucked the horses onward.
They rode in silence for a while longer, and then he finally spoke. “Essex.”
“Pardon?” Mary said, startled.
“I was born in Essex.”
“Oh.” Mary had never been further south than Lincolnshire. “Does your family still live there?”
“No,” he said sharply. Mary glanced at him and saw a muscle working in his cheek.
“Oh,” she said again, moving over to the other side of the seat.
He reached out with his left hand and clamped down on her thigh, pulling her closer to him, so close their legs touched. “Don’t move away,” he said in a ragged voice.
His hand on her leg felt warm, sinful, and utterly right.
“I won’t,” she said. She had always been too softhearted, and could never resist a plea for help. His was no different. Even if it was delivered in that autocratic voice of his.
She slid her hand down and clasped his hand, winding her fingers around his. If anything, his hand was even clammier than before.
If he were one of her pupils, she’d place her palm on his forehead to check for signs of fever, and insist that he drink a medicinal tisane. “Should we stop?” she asked in a hesitant voice. “So you can rest?”
He raised his head to look at the sky. No rain yet, but the clouds were dark over the horizon. “We’ve got another few hours before I’ll … before we’ll have to stop.”
“But if you’re ill …” she ventured.
He yanked his hand out of her clasp and turned to glare at her. “I am not ill, Miss Smith. Do you understand me? Not ill,” he repeated.
After about fifteen minutes, Mary couldn’t stand the silence anymore. She cleared her throat.
He ignored her.
She cleared it again, louder this time.
He gave her an annoyed look, raising one of those black brows. “Was there something you wanted to say? Because if you’re going to argue with me again, I will gag you.”
His expression convinced her he would do exactly as he threatened.
“No, I … that is, I have to”—she stopped and waved her hands—“you know.” She gave him a helpless glance, waiting for the inevitable look of annoyance. It came, accompanied by an exasperated sigh.
“And I suppose you cannot just go in the bushes, can you? I have to find a place?” he said.
She nodded, not trusting herself to answer without saying something provoking.
“There should be a village a few miles up,” he said in a resigned tone of voice. “We can stop there for the night. But we’ll be up before dawn, so be prepared.” It sounded like he was talking to a recalcitrant child.
Mary bristled at his tone. “Fine,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me until we’ve arrived. You never know what will happen.”
Was that a threat, or a promise? Either way, she didn’t want to know.
***
Alasdair glanced over at her for the hundredth time. He wished he weren’t so entranced by her figure; by the warmth and promise and forgetfulness he might find in her body.
Just sitting next to her was making him mad, madder than Mary already thought he was. And he wasn’t sure which was more difficult, the longing for opium, or the longing for her. At least the latter was assuaging the crawling agony of the former.
But neither was a longing he could afford to satisfy.
If he could just get her to Scotland, just get her to shut up for long enough to realize he was doing this for her own good, for her ultimate survival, it would be fine. He could ensure her safety, give her all his unentailed funds and property, and then disappear. It would be a final act of contrition to atone for all that he had done.
He sneaked another look at her; her head was turned to the other side, her dark-brown curls swinging against her cheek. She was as stiff and proper as any lady he’d ever known. If he hadn’t seen her on that table himself, lain next to her and been teased with that soft, soft skin, he’d never think she was anything but another gentlewoman interested in knitting and good works.
Until he looked into her eyes.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, turning her face to his. Her voice was low and silky. He couldn’t help but look at her mouth, her lush, gorgeous mouth, the lips turned slightly downward at the edges. Her bottom lip was much fuller than the top, and both were a deep pink.
“Nothing, no,” he replied, assuming his most commanding voice even as his eyes raked her figure.
She snapped her head away and moved away from him the fractional amount of space the carriage seat afforded. Leaving him alone with his memories again. With the agony of longing and regret. He watched the reins flop on the horses’ backs as his thoughts drifted.
Logically, he knew it wasn’t his fault Anthony had died. Either one of them could have been chosen to accompany Colonel Withers on the mission past the Spanish border.
But Alasdair knew, had always known, that Anthony wasn’t the soldier he was, and he knew their superiors knew it as well.
So when it had come time to choose which Datchworth was more expendable, they’d picked Anthony.
And that was after Judith had died so suddenly. Judith had never wanted to marry Alasdair. She’d always seemed slightly scared of him, of his passion. She’d preferred Anthony, that much was clear, but at the time, Anthony had
been the heir. He was destined for a higher match, not the third daughter of a baron. So Alasdair got Judith, and Anthony remained unwed.
Anthony was never given the chance to marry, nor did he succeed to the title when their father died.
Because Anthony was already dead.
It was enough to make anyone lose his mind. But Alasdair hadn’t truly lost his mind; he’d just lost his senses. He’d returned home wounded himself, just a bullet through his shoulder, but the doctor had given him opium for the pain, and the oblivion, the sweet oblivion, felt so good he took more and more of it until he couldn’t feel anything but its effects.
Until last night. When he’d looked into her eyes, felt her anguish, he’d realized that she needed help, and he was her only chance for it.
And he’d felt her skin, too, hadn’t he, sliding his palm up her leg, seeing the bruises she’d received. He wanted to protect her.
And he wanted to have her. Completely.
He was hard just thinking about it. Just thinking about her. And here she was, sitting beside him with no one else in sight, and no one knew where they were, or where they were going. He wanted so badly to stop the coach and pull her into the carriage, and strip her and soothe her sore, bruised flesh and make her forget everything but his name.
Make him forget everything but her touch.
He spoke more roughly than he’d intended. “I see smoke up ahead. With any luck, we can find an inn. I can’t guarantee it won’t be as filthy as last night, but at least they will have what you require.”
He enjoyed needling her, watching her eyebrows rise and her chest expand with an inhaled breath of outrage. It took his mind off the craving, the insatiable desire for the drug, for oblivion.
“My lord, may I remind you this was your idea? If we had done things as I wished, we would have followed our coachman back to the inn at Alnwick.”
“To meet up with your brother. Oh, excuse me, half brother. Tell me, Miss Smith, would he have sold you again? Perhaps for less money this time?” He tapped his chin with his finger, tilting his head in thought. “I wonder which of the gentlemen at the inn would have won the auction. Maybe the loud-mouthed one who was bidding against me? Or one of the quiet farmers lounging against the back wall? I’m sure once he was tired of you, you could have had a place with the sheep. Or the barkeep, he was an upstanding citizen, if you ignore the fact that all of his remaining teeth were blacker than—”
“Your heart,” she finished, her bitter tone scalding his ears.
“Precisely.” She knew him already. That was good.
“You’ve made your point, my lord.”
The carriage curved around a small country lane, then continued on to what was clearly the main road in the village. At first there were just a few houses, smoke drifting from their chimneys; then the buildings grew denser, and Alasdair spotted a few business establishments: a blacksmith, a carpenter, a small market.
He heard the sounds of the town’s bustle: children yelling, carts and carriages rumbling along the small thoroughfare, the insistent rhythm of the blacksmith’s pounding. Like the constant drum of want, of hate, of desperation that thudded in his brain.
As they moved further into the town, he saw a millinery shop and a bookstore. Across the street was an inn bearing a sign that read The Three Cranes, with a trio of bedraggled birds decorating the door.
Alasdair eased the horses to a walk and then stopped them, looking at Mary from the corner of his eye. He could tell she was regarding the establishment with suspicion, but he also knew she was evaluating her options.
She had none, as he well knew.
She’d go in with him because she had no other choice. Hell, or hell.
Chapter 6
The inn looked just about as disreputable as the Lion’s Head. At least her betrothed was consistent. The innkeeper, who had a few more teeth than the last innkeeper, recognized Alasdair as Quality as soon as they entered the small main room, where a few other patrons were hunched over their ale.
“Needing a room are you, milord?” the man said, bowing so low Mary thought his nose might hit his knees.
“Two rooms,” she said quickly. Alasdair clamped a hand on her arm.
“My wife is a bit upset with me, sir, and thinks she’d like to sleep by herself,” he said in a condescending tone—as though he had any other. “One room, please.” The man bowed, and headed toward the stairs, motioning for them to follow.
“Two rooms, my lord,” Mary said, insisting. He’d promised!
His grip grew tighter. “One room. I spent all my emergency money on you, my love, so unless we want to sleep out-of-doors in a few nights, we’ll be sharing a room.”
“Oh,” she said in a subdued tone, shaking his hand off her arm. “I didn’t—that is, I didn’t realize.”
“Of course not,” he drawled. “You were too busy thinking I had designs on your luscious body.”
Put that way, it sounded ridiculously vain. And she’d been ridiculous before, but never vain. That her father—and her mirror—had made certain of.
She opened her mouth to utter an apology, when she saw his face drain of color. He clutched his stomach.
“Are you all right, my lord?” He staggered, then bent and placed his arm across her shoulders.
His voice was rough and ragged. “Will be fine. Just get me up to the room.”
She stood frozen for a moment, feeling the weight of his body leaning against her. “Quickly!” he commanded, stronger now.
“Yes, my lord,” she replied through gritted teeth. She and Alasdair moved toward the dark stairwell at the other end of the room. His left arm was draped over her shoulders, and his right hand was clutching his stomach. If she weren’t supporting him, she knew he would already have collapsed.
All thoughts of her own predicament fled as they moved toward the stairs.
Mary saw droplets of sweat beading on his forehead. “This way,” she said, her knees buckling a little under his weight.
They mounted the stairs together, barely fitting in the narrow passage. Alasdair’s weight was almost entirely on Mary, and her back and leg muscles began to protest at the unaccustomed work. “Almost there, my lord,” she said, hoping it was true.
They made it to the top of the stairs and stopped, Mary looking around anxiously for the landlord. He bustled out of the farthest door and gestured for them to enter.
“It’s our best room, my lord, my lady,” he said. “Just ’ad a duke ’ere the other week.”
Mary didn’t spare a breath to challenge his boast, although she thought the man’s patron was likely the Duke of Disorder, if he was the duke of anything. Alasdair was breathing heavily, and he wobbled against her. They negotiated the final steps into the room.
She helped him over to the bed, where he flopped on top of it, the movement producing a spray of dust.
Mary and the landlord watched the dust for a moment, and then she turned to face him. “We will need supper, water, and fresh linens. These”—she gestured toward the bed, where Alasdair lay completely still—“are not acceptable. And send someone up to mop the floor,” she ordered.
The landlord looked as though he wished to argue with her, but he just glanced over at Alasdair and nodded. He walked quickly from the room, calling out orders as he left.
Mary sat on the bed alongside Alasdair, nudging him to his side so she could feel his forehead. It was hot, and his face was sweaty.
As she looked at him, his eyes opened suddenly and he stared at her, unseeing. “Judith?” he said in the gentlest tone Mary had heard him use yet.
She stroked his forehead and smoothed his hair. “Everything is all right, my lord,” she said in a soft voice. “You will be fine. You are just ill.”
“Why don’t you ever call me Alasdair?” he asked in a plaintive tone. He dragged his arm out from under his body and toppled her over so she was lying on the bed. His arm lay on her stomach, and when she tried to squirm away, he curled his hand aro
und her waist and held her still.
“A—Alasdair,” she said quietly. “Now settle down and try to rest.”
He nodded, his eyes still closed, and pulled her closer to him so the length of their bodies was touching.
Mary watched his face, her eyes traveling from the rumpled hair to the strong brows, the commanding nose, and his full, sensual mouth. All that and a marquess, too.
No wonder he was accustomed to getting his way—people probably just sensed his autocratic authority and did whatever he wanted them to.
And she was no different.
She reached out and touched his hair, pushing the long, disheveled strands behind his ear. His scent tickled her nose, and she sniffed, leaning in a little closer to him, inhaling the mingled odors of leather, sweat, and musk.
He gave a crooked smile in his sleep, and gathered her closer still.
Mary gave a gasp of surprise when he suddenly opened his eyes. The green depths were just inches from her face, surrounded by long, black lashes. Many women would have given their left arm to have eyelashes like that.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, moving forward to kiss her on her jawline. She closed her eyes for a moment.
It felt appallingly right to be there, in his arms, caressed by him, even though he seemed to think she was this mysterious Judith. Mary envied her, whoever she was. Because Mary knew she herself was not beautiful; Judith must have been.
“My lord, stop,” she said at last after he had finished kissing her jawline and was making his way down her neck. His only reply was to shake his head. Strands of his dark, silky hair spilled onto her face.
She pushed at his arms, which were now clasped around her, and shoved him away from her, meeting his eyes. “My lord. I am Mary Smith, and you are ill. We need to make you better.”
He grinned an irresistibly charming smile, one that reached his eyes and made them crinkle in the corners. “I know who you are, Miss Mary Smith. You’re my betrothed, we’re on our way to Scotland, and you’re the only one who can make me feel better.”
Megan Frampton Page 5